All Roads Lead to Rome
by Amandah Leigh
Summary: Hermione has everything she thought she wanted: good job, faithful boyfriend, affordable flat near library...but feels oddly unfulfilled. She embarks on a yr-long solo trip thru magical Europe to find herself. Instead, she finds a man long thought dead. When she learns why he disappeared and what he took with him she realizes he might have -or be- what she was searching for. HIATUS
1. The Heights of Greatness

**Detailed Description:**

Five years after the war ended, Hermione has everything she thought she wanted – important job, faithful boyfriend, affordable flat within walking distance of the wizarding world's second biggest library... but she feels oddly unfulfilled.

To keep from going completely out of her head, she decides to take a 12-month break from it all to travel around magical Europe alone to find herself... but what she finds is a man long thought dead, a man keeping a precious secret, a man who doesn't want to be found.

When she learns why he left, what he took with him, and who he's become since the war, she finds herself falling... and realizes the problem with having all she thought she wanted was that she didn't know what she needed.

 **Referenced Pairings:** HGSS (Sevmione), LMNM (Lucissa), BLLV (Bellamort), HPGW (Harry/Ginny), NLLL (Neville/Luna)

 **Rated M:** Mature Content and Consensual Citrus

 **Genre:** Romance, mostly, but with a little mystery for our couple to solve, and some drama.

 **Note:** This fic is as canon as possible, including information learned from Cursed Child, Fantastic Beasts, and Pottermore, but completely disregards the DH epilogue. If you have not read Cursed Child, seen Fantastic Beasts, or spent time on Pottermore, expect mild spoilers.

* * *

 **ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME**

 **CHAPTER ONE:**

 **The Heights of Greatness**

 **"** **It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness."**

 **\- Seneca**

Rome. The Eternal City.

And her sixth city in the sixth country in six months.

Hermione sighed, pulled her scarf a little more tightly around her neck, and wished the Muggle family standing nearby would get bored or cold or hungry and go away so she could go explore the part of the Ancient Roman ruins forbidden to tourists in peace.

"Would you like me to do that?" she asked, gesturing so they'd know she meant take a photo of them with their green rectangular disposable camera. She hoped they couldn't read the judgment in her expression (who goes all the way to Italy on vacation and doesn't even bring a proper camera?).

The family matriarch said something to her husband in their native language - Russian, perhaps? - and then turned back to Hermione, smiled, and nodded. Hermione took the camera and waited for the family to pose.

She couldn't help smiling as she framed the shot through the tiny viewer window. They were a picturesque group, like something off a greeting card. Mother, maybe forty, with carefully styled dark blonde hair; tall, slim, well-dressed Father with impressive mustache; graying Grandfather leaning on his cane; teenage daughter, trying to make sure the photo captured her best angle; brother, perhaps twelve, looking like he'd rather be playing football; little sister, bright-eyed with missing teeth, grinning. All they needed was a fat-cheeked baby and a mid-sized dog.

"Spah-see-bo," said the woman. (That's what it sounded like to Hermione, anyway). She took back the camera and smiled.

"You're welcome," said Hermione, hoping the word meant 'Thank you' but realizing they probably didn't know what 'You're welcome' meant anyway.

The family hurried away. Hermione watched them go, not taking her eyes off of their retreating backs until they'd safely turned a corner. She glanced around, ensuring no one else had come up (no one should! It was nearly midnight and rather cold) then apparated to the other side of the barrier. She'd already been in Rome for a week, since the first of October, and she'd been waiting for this opportunity since her arrival.

She wandered along a worn, moss-covered path, one that was probably originally a road built with limestone and cobblestone and brick, according to her research, leading... somewhere wonderful, she hoped. Perhaps even to another country, once part of the Roman Empire.

She reached out to touch the cool, smooth, white, sun-dried stone of the wall of a partially collapsed structure, the wall of what used to be... something beautiful, she hoped. A home for a little family, perhaps.

There wasn't much light, save for that given off by the moon and oddly placed eerie green lights that made some parts of this forbidden area more visible to those who were permitted to look down upon it from the concrete sidewalks above.

Earlier in the week she'd taken a tour during which a guide explained that this particular expanse of Roman ruins had been found when excavating under 'modern' Rome (built mostly in the 18th century) in an attempt to expand the underground metro system:

"It is difficult for us to put in the tunnels," said the guide in careful English, accentuated by a shrug. "It is because, every time they dig, they discover new millennia-old ruins. They prefer to keep these as intact as possible, which is why our metro has only three lines, unlike America's massive one in New York City!"

'It truly is breathtaking,' thought Hermione.

Her research into the oldest surviving records and societies of magical peoples of Ancient Europe wasn't going well, technically, in that all she'd managed to do thus far was explore and learn what others had already documented, but she was trying to enjoy it all the same. What more could she have expected? It wasn't as though she was going to simply arrive in Ireland or Greece or Italy and suddenly discover some enchanting, wizarding world-altering secret that would land her a book deal and a reputation as one of the UK's best magical scholars. When she'd taken off on this one-year sabbatical, she was looking for her true path, and though she told her boss she thought historical research was it, she had no idea what her seemingly perfect life had been missing... all she'd known was that she was miserable and couldn't pretend otherwise anymore.

She continued along the mossy path through the ruins of Ancient Rome, even straying into some of the structures that were still, by some Muggle magic, standing after all these years. Thousands of years. Taking care to gently run her fingers over walls and columns, wondering if this might have been a chair, or that a stove... Did they have stoves? They must have had chairs. She sighed. She had been known as a know-it-all in school, but this trip had only confirmed what she'd begun to suspect over the last couple of years: there was so much that she didn't know, that she would never know, and that she couldn't truly know simply by reading books.

And she hated that. She wanted to know.

She wanted to know everything.

"Tell me your secrets, Ancient Rome," she whispered to the arch of a doorway, reaching up to touch it. "I want to know about your witches and wizards, about your gods and your goddesses, about your architects and artists, your mothers and fathers, your heroes and your villains..."

Heroes. Even thinking the word reminded her of her past as right hand of Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world. She wondered what he and the others were doing right now.

It had hurt, saying goodbye to Harry and Ginny and Luna and Neville and especially her boyfriend of almost five years, Ron (they'd agreed to 'take a break' for the twelve months rather than try to continue something long-distance. She sensed he was secretly relieved by this, as their relationship had been on rocky ground since she turned down his marriage proposal last fall) but separating herself from her life at that point was absolutely necessary, no matter how selfish it may have seemed to everyone she left behind.

" _You_ must be hiding some secrets," she whispered to a broken bust of a woman carved from marble or granite. "Who were you? What was your name? Were you based upon a real woman, or were you a mere figment in the imagination of the man who sculpted you?"

She wished she knew more about Muggle art. She'd been to the Palazzo Brashci, a palace-turned-museum, on her third day in Rome. It was lovely on the outside, but the art inside... she had no point of reference for most of it, no background, no knowledge of the artists on display. It was a jolting reminder of the ways her Muggle education had suffered in her seven years of Magical learning (eight, if one counts the year on the run, during which she learned an undeniable amount despite being far from books and professors).

She did, however, find herself taken by a temporary fixture, a Renaissance painting entitled Judith Slaying Holofernes in which a young woman and her handmade are violently cutting the head off a bearded man who looked to have been asleep when the attempt began.

She was captivated by the painting, with its sparingly bright colors and dramatically dark shadows.

"That's called chiaroscuro," a kind-eyed older English woman informed her. "The extreme shadows, I mean. Caravaggio made that style famous, but if you ask me, Artemisia here did it better. Down this way..." She led Hermione a few paintings down the hall, in which a young woman was turned away from two inappropriately close men, one of whom looked like he was shushing her. "This is called Susannah and the Elders. It's a bible story, but Artemisia chose to depict it anyway, even going so far as to show the female nude both twisted and straight-on, at a time when women artists were greatly restricted to painting inconsequential things like baskets of fruit. If they were permitted to paint at all."

Hermione had ended up spending the rest of the afternoon with the woman, happy to listen to her explain each image in the special exhibit in detail, even though some of those details – namely the ones surrounding the painter herself, a rape victim whose abuser was convicted but never served his sentence – were painful to listen to.

Now, alone in the ruins at midnight, Hermione kept walking along the mossy, slippery path. It had rained earlier, all day in fact, leaving it slick. No wonder they didn't allow tourists in this part. It could be dangerous.

"Were you assaulted or something?" Ginny had asked when Hermione told her of her intention to spend a year escaping – no, wait, exploring – Europe alone. "Is that why you need to get away? Because whoever hurt you, Hermione..."

"No, no, nothing like that!" Hermione had assured her truthfully. Though she'd been hit on more than she would've liked after the war ended, when she found herself something of a celebrity, no one had done worse to her than placing a hand on her knee while seated on the next barstool or accidentally brushing against her in the hall of the Ministry, and she was always quick to put these men in their place, reminding them that not only was she in a relationship, she was capable of knowing what she wanted without needing convincing otherwise, thus when she said 'no, thanks,' she meant 'no, not ever.'

A rustling noise nearby startled Hermione. She leapt up. When had she sat down? Had she fallen asleep? How could she possible have fallen asleep?

"Ouch!"

She reached up. Her head was pounding. Her fingers felt moisture against her forhead. Blood? She looked for her wand. Thankfully she'd never said Nox, thus it was still lit up, not far from where she'd been lying on the path. She retrieved it and checked her fingers. Sure enough, blood. There was some on the edge of a sharp white stone, too. Hell. She must've slipped, hit her head, and passed out for a few minutes.

She hoped it was only a few minutes.

She had just used a quick spell to stop the bleeding when she heard the rustling noise again which put her instantly on edge. She made a snapping motion with her wrist, turning out the light on her wand. Were she near a forest or bushes she wouldn't have worried, but here there was less likely to be some small, sweet animal simply scurrying about, foraging for food.

The rustling again.

Hermione was just about to apparate away when a small child stepped into the dilapidated structure from the path beyond.

"Oh! Hello!" said Hermione, crouching down.

The child looked to be perhaps five or six years old, a girl, in a strangely plain black dress, or it might've been dark blue, it was difficult to tell in the moonlight. She was pale with impossibly dark eyes and the tiniest button nose. Her hair was covered by a thin, shimmery scarf fastened tightly around her head and then wrapped around a low bun in the back. She was not dressed for the weather, having no coat, tights, or gloves. Hermione quickly removed her coat, then her jumper, and held it out toward the girl. "You must be very cold."

The girl stared back at her, unblinking.

"Where are your mum and dad?" asked Hermione. Then, feeling like an idiot, she smacked herself in the forehead (right over the cut she'd just half-healed). "You probably don't speak English! My Italian isn't very good, but I'll try to figure out... Why am I prattling on? You don't know what I'm saying. Let's see..." She had very limited ability to speak Italian, relying mostly on quick translation charms that worked on the written word to get around the country and banking on the fact that there were a number of people who could speak English if she were in a bind. "Um, your... Mamma e Papa? Perduto? Dove... is... Mamma e Papa?" She was relatively certain 'dove' meant 'where' and 'perduto' meant 'lost.'

The girl did not respond.

"Here, put on my jumper," said Hermione. She pointed to the girl then mimed getting dressed. The girl still did not respond. Hermione took a step toward her. She took one step back. Hermione tried again. The girl didn't flinch or run away, but for every small step forward Hermione took, the girl took an equal sized step back, maintaining the exact distance between them.

"Aiuto? Assistenza?" asked Hermione, hoping both words meant help.

The girl pointed at Hermione. She jutted up her chin, puffed out her chest, and stared Hermione down, making her shiver.

"You remind me of... someone," Hermione whispered. "How can I help you?"

"Witch," the girl said. Not with judgment, not with surprise, but matter-of-factly.

"No!" Hermione tried to chuckle, slipping her wand into her ponytail. "No, that was my flashlight. Uh, torcia... light... flashlight."

"Witch," the girl repeated, more insistently this time.

"No!" Hermione held up her hands. "No witch!"

"Eileen?" called a deep, resonating voice, which echoed off the ancient walls. "Eileen!"

Hermione furrowed her brow. Just as she'd felt there was something familiar about the girl, there was something familiar about that voice.

"Eileen? Eileen!" A man ducked under the low arch of the doorway, crossing from the path into the mossy-floored structure Hermione was now thinking of as a home, whether it had been or not. He let out a long burst of air and lifted the girl. "You know better than to disappear in the middle of the night! You were supposed to be asleep! I woke up and panicked to find you gone. How many times have I..."

The girl was facing Hermione over the man's shoulder. She pointed again, staring, unblinking, and repeated the word.

"Witch."

"What? Witch?" He swiveled around. "What do you mean, witch?"

His eyes widened.

Hermione's eyes widened.

That voice had indeed been familiar.

But no, this was impossible.

Staring back at her were the impossibly dark eyes of a man with shoulder-length black hair, pale skin, thin lips, and a hooked-nose.

Staring back at her was the face of a ghost.

"Miss Granger." There was no intonation to the man's voice. No surprise, no upset, no recognition beyond the stating of her name.

"Witch," said the little girl in his arms. She smiled, which slightly decreased the spookiness of her face in this light. "Baba? Witch."

"Miss Granger," he repeated, his gaze sweeping intrusively over her body, hovering ever so briefly over her filled out figure and less briefly over the unsightly cut above her eyebrow. The man sneered, glanced at the girl, and quickly returned his expression to one of indifference.

"Professor Snape," Hermione whispered, her cinnamon brown eyes wide, her mouth unable to close all the way. "You're alive."

"It would appear so."

"I thought you were dead."

"I worked that out for myself when you expressed surprise over finding me alive, Miss Granger."

"But you're not dead." She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She was rubbish at healing charms, thus the cut had opened itself up and begun bleeding again. "You survived."

Professor Snape opened his mouth to respond, but the approaching voice of a man called to them furiously in Italian, breaking the tension but not in a welcome way. He was rushing toward them, flanked by two other men. Even without speaking the language Hermione was able to discern that he wanted to know what they were doing there and realized they were about to be set upon by Muggle police.

Oh, hell.

She took a step forward and stumbled – the cut had her dizzy, there was blood in her eye – and the next thing she knew, Severus, still holding the girl, grabbed roughly onto her arm, jerked her toward him, and disapparated.

* * *

 **A/N:**

NOTE 18 Oct 2017 - I have noticed that there were issues with some uploaded chapters, which seems to be from things saved on the ffnet app not actually saving in the document manager. I am going through now to try to make sure all of these are fixed but if you notice anything odd (like symbols in place of words) please let me know. Thanks!

I know I said it would be awhile before I posted another HGSS fic, but this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone and after three days of telling myself I wouldn't start posting until the end of August I gave up and decided to share it. Updates for this will be slower than When Sorrows Come - every Monday and Thursday without extra days in between. (This week no Thursday since I'm starting this fic on Wednesday, so look for Chap 2 on Monday).

Compared to When Sorrows Come this fic is shorter and less multilayered (no original characters who are also main characters, no super crazy subplots) but it still has a bit of mystery, a somewhat slow burning romance, and interspersed lemons. Oh, and as much as I love them together, Severus didn't have any sort of fling with Narcissa in this one even though it's my headcanon preference... but if you like NMSS please check out my fic Wanting Narcissa.

Forgive any mistakes or inconsistencies about Rome, please. I was last there four years ago and am working mostly off a combination of memory and the captions I wrote for the photos I took at the time with some basic researching for certain specifics, but nothing too involved. :)

Thanks for reading! Reviews always appreciated!

 **-AL**

 **PS:** This fic contains mature content and themes, including references to past child abuse (physical and emotional, not sexual) with adult language and occasional citrus and is therefore M-Rated.


	2. A Dark Way

**CHAPTER TWO:**

 **A Dark Way**

 ** _It's a dark road_**

 ** _And a dark way that leads to my house_**

 ** _And the word says you're never gonna find me there_**

 **-Annie Lennox**

When Hermione opened her eyes again, they were in a sitting room, and thanks to an incantation uttered by Severus, the bleeding had stopped.

He set down the girl and rubbed his temples with his fingertips, possibly massaging away a headache.

Hermione glanced around. This seemed to be a flat, or perhaps a very small house, but the décor was not at all what she would expect from the former potions professor, a dark and snarky Slytherin whose chambers were location in the dungeon of Hogwarts for nearly two decades. On the contrary, it was downright... homey.

The couch was a deep ocean blue, soft and plush, with square yolk yellow decorative pillows on either end. There was a matching easy chair, this one with a pale yellow pillow (atop which sat a rag doll). In the corner by the window, she saw what looked to be an antique wooden rocker. The curtains were the same orange as the pillows, the floor was mostly covered by a large light blue rug with darker blue accents, and opposite the couch, where a Muggle might have put a television, was a mid-sized pink and purple pop-up tent with a flap entrance. The only thing that suggested this was the home of a wizarding world academic type was one tall, narrow bookcase, featuring what looked to be mostly informational titles (she spotted Hogwarts, A History).

Directly opposite her was a door, and to the left of that, she assumed, was a hall, perhaps leading to a bathroom. She glanced over her shoulder. Behind her was a cheery kitchen. There was a counter separating it from the sitting room rather than a wall and a small glass-topped table with two chairs.

The walls were painted bright white and behind the couch was a large framed painting of a sunset over the sea.

"This is where you live?" she asked, turning back.

He nodded.

" _Here?"_

"You thought, perhaps, that I still lived in a dungeon, perhaps a laboratory? Or a torture chamber?"

"No! Nothing like that. It's just that it's so... lovely."

"Wait until you see the bedroom."

Her jaw dropped for the second time since discovering him alive. Did he mean for her to see the bedroom? Under what context? Why would he think she would even _want_ to see the bedroom, or be willing? They hardly knew each other! He'd been her _professor,_ for Merlin's sake!

Suddenly realizing how she'd taken what he'd said, Severus cleared his throat and clarified.

"I did not choose the apartment's color scheme, Miss Granger, nor did I select the furniture, and the bedroom is even less to my personal taste than the rest of the place. I apologize; I did not intend for it sound as though you _would be_ seeing the bedroom, only that it would not be what anyone who has ever met me would expect."

"Oh. Right!" She shot him a shaky, relieved smile, but the tiniest littlest ickle-bittiest part of her couldn't help thinking... perhaps she wouldn't mind seeing the bedroom. (It had been a _long_ six months. Ten, if you count the four months she and Ron were basically on a break before they agreed to take a break.) She quickly forced the ridiculous notion from her mind.

"Sit down." Severus gestured toward the couch. "Try not to bleed on anything. Spells never truly get it all the way out, and such a pain it would be to have to explain away a blood stain every time we entertain, eh, Eileen?"

Eileen, who remained standing beside him, did not seem to have heard the question. Or perhaps she was simply in the habit of not answering people.

"Baking soda and dish soap." Hermione tossed her jacket and jumper to the chair, then sat crossed legged on the couch. "That gets out blood. It's the Muggle way, but it works wonders."

"Is that so?" He sounded unimpressed. "Remain here. I shall return momentarily."

He disappeared down what she assumed was the hall, leaving her alone with the girl.

"So," Hermione started, smiling. "You speak English?"

"Witch," said the girl.

"Yes." Hermione tried to keep smiling. "I'm a witch. You know because you saw my wand, and your... er... Professor Snape has one just like it. Your name is Eileen, right? That's a lovely name. Mine is Hermione. It's nice to meet you."

The girl did not answer, but she approached Hermione. She touched Hermione's right forearm, which was covered by the long sleeve of her blouse.

"Mudblood," she whispered.

"What did you say?" Hermione wrenched back her arm. She glanced down, half-expecting to see that her sleeve had disappeared, or, at least, gotten pushed up somehow, but no, the word was completely hidden, as usual.

"Mudblood witch," the girl whispered, her eyes wide, unblinking, her head tiled oddly to one side. She did not look at Hermione. She looked off into the distance, to her right, as if something was there beyond the wall.

"Back away, Eileen." Severus reentered. She obeyed. He sat on the couch and turned Hermione to face him, pressing his right thumb gently to her forehead, assessing the damage. "I'm going to clean this cut, then use Essense of Dittany..."

Eileen slipped under his right arm and settled herself on his lap, narrowing her eyes at Hermione, who half expected her to growl and nip like a small dog. Severus rolled his eyes but did not make her move.

"As I am her only parent, Eileen does not like for women to get too close to me," he explained. "Though I do not know whether this is more because she is afraid to lose me, or because she is unwilling to share my time, it can be a bit... trying. I had a girlfriend, once..." He exhaled slowly. Eileen went back to staring at Merlin-only-knows-what out of the corners of her eyes. "We invited her to dinner. As soon as I'd poured the wine, Eileen saw fit to hold her breath until she turned blue and passed out, simply to divert attention. I have told her repeatedly that this behavior is inappropriate, but I suspect possessiveness was ingrained in her while in the womb. She gets it from her mother."

He said all this in a dry, steady tone without inflection, almost as if droning on in front of a classroom of bored first years rather than imparting upon Hermione information more personal than he'd ever shared with her or her friends, with the exception being, of course, the memories he gave Harry the night he died. Well, _almost_ died.

"As you might have guessed, that particular woman was not my girlfriend much longer."

Hermione tried to quell her involuntary reaction, as she thought it might be rude to express shock over the fact that he'd even had a girlfriend.

 _But of course,_ she realized, _if this girl is his daughter, surely he must..._ see _women. Or have done enough of that in the past to have created her, at any rate._

"I know what you are thinking, Miss Granger." He gently swabbed her cut with soft, white gauze. "You are both correct and incorrect, but I'll not be more specific."

Her face reddened. She'd forgotten how proficient her former professor was at Legilimency. She would have to be more careful. Quickly, she worked to clear her mind. While she was no master of Occlumency, she had studied it a bit after the war, thinking it might help her should she seek a position in Magical Law Enforcement someday (which, eventually, she did – but hated it).

Once the blood was cleaned up, Severus made use of his wand, magically suturing the cut, then gently applied a thin layer of Essence of Dittany over it with his first two fingers, cupping her chin in his opposite hand. He was certainly better at healing than she'd ever been. The Dittany felt cool, almost tingly, but in a pleasant way, and she felt herself responding almost inappropriately to the way he massaged it into her skin before placing a small bandage over the wound.

"I make my own Essence," he said, answered her unasked question. "Helps to better prevent scarring. I add an infusion of undiluted murtlap oil. That's why it tingles."

Apparently her Occlumency abilities were even more rudimentary than she'd realized.

As soon as he removed his hand from her forehead, Eileen climbed down off his lap.

"Young lady," he said sternly. 'You need to go back to bed. What were you thinking, sneaking out in the middle of the night? You could have been kidnapped, gotten lost, or frozen to death. You're hardly dressed!" He shook his head and tugged her headscarf. "At least you thought to cover your hair. You did well with the scarf."

Though Eileen did not quite smile, Hermione could tell she was pleased by his praise.

"We've talked about this, Eileen Prince. You are six years old. Six-year-olds do not wander around the ruins of Ancient Rome all alone at nighttime. Six-year-olds stay home with their fathers or other trusted adults. Six-year-olds stay in bed when it is bedtime. Understand?"

She did not nod or speak, but she did look at him.

"Good. Now let's get you ready for bed. Again."

"Are you Muslim?" asked Hermione. "Or Orthodox Jewish?" She couldn't think of any other reasons a little girl could have for completely covering her hair, though Muggle religion, like Muggle art, was a subject she knew precious little about. "Is that why...?"

"We are neither Muslim nor Jewish. We do not cover her hair for religious or cultural reasons."

Eileen began to hum tunelessly, bouncing on her toes.

Severus pulled her toward him and removed the scarf.

Hermione gasped.

"You see?" he asked.

The girl's hair was not like any Hermione had ever seen on a child. Or on an adult, for that matter. It was shoulder-length and wavy, unnaturally silky, strangely shimmery... and _silver_. Not gray, gray would be odd enough on a little girl, but this was unicorn mane _silver._

"I have tried countless times to change its color. Charms. Dyes. Glamours. We even shaved it off once, hoping it would grow back differently, but to no avail. And rather than risk the general public thinking I am some sort of oddball who alters his child's hair to be a glittery silver, we keep it covered when we're out. It's safer that way. Draws less unwanted attention. Right, Eileen?"

Eileen pointed at Hermione as she had in the ruins, calling to Hermione's mind images she'd seen in a textbook in which Muggles centuries ago had cast shame upon those labeled witches, before stoning, hanging, or burning them.

"I know," said Severus patiently. "Miss Granger is a witch. Forgive Eileen, please. She doesn't see many witches. This is exciting for her. Now to bed with you. You should have been asleep hours ago."

"Mudblood," said Eileen, her tone not harsh, but curious.

"Excuse me?" Severus asked sharply. He looked from Eileen to Hermione and back again. "What did you say?"

"Mudblood," she repeated, seemingly surprised by the harshness of his tone. She pointed more vehemently at Hermione. "Mudblood!"

"Where did you learn that word?" He grabbed hold of her wrist, though not hard. "Had your grandmother said it?"

Hermione was distracted from the use of slur momentarily as she realized if the girl had a grandmother, than either Severus Snape's mum or his former significant other's must be alive.

"Eileen! I asked a question. From whom did you learn that word? Did Yia Yia say it? Eileen, did you learn that word from Yia Yia?"

Eileen shook her head, recoiling from his touch, her lower lip quivering. She was clearly aware that she had done something wrong but had no idea what it was. She stepped to Hermione and patted her covered forearm.

"Mudblood?" she whispered, looking to Severus as if seeking confirmation, or approval.

Severus appeared uncharacteristically flummoxed, so Hermione pulled up her sleeve to show him what had been done during the war, the red-raised scrawled scarred letters forever marring her skin.

"Perhaps she's referring to this. But how did she know it was here? I didn't show her my arm."

He bent forward to examine the slur, running his fingertips over the letters, sending a shiver up her arm and down her spine.

"This is positively heinous. Not voluntarily carved into your skin, I presume."

"No, of course not. I'm not a masochist."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Pity."

"What?"

"I said, _prithee,_ tell me, who did this to you?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Both Severus and the girl flinched at the sound of the witch's name.

"Eileen, how did you know that there was a word – _that word_ – carved into Miss Granger's arm?" He lifted the girl and sat her on his knee in such a kindly fatherly fashion it suddenly made Hermione long for her own. "Could you see it?"

Eileen, no longer engaged in the discussion, was clearly seeing something else at the moment, something neither of the adults could see. She was again staring out of the corners of her eyes, this time to the left, with her head tilted, flicking her fingers near her ear. Humming.

Severus asked her once more. When she still didn't reply, he kissed her temple and set her down.

"You need sleep. You get this way when you're sleepy."

He waved his wand, summoning a green cotton night dress out from inside the pink and purple pop tent. He changed Eileen quickly, removed her shoes, and carried her across the room. He lifted the tent, which had no floor, to reveal a miniature bedroom inside. There was an elongated toddler bed, several stuffed animals, a number of stacked books, and a collection of Chocolate Frog cards. He tucked the girl into bed and lowered the tent over her.

"She prefers to sleep in small, dark spaces," he explained. "I purchased the tent so I would stop finding her curled up in the back of the cupboard or under the bed. Unfortunately we were unable to find one less... cute." He spit out the adjective as if it tasted bad, then waved his wand and muttered, "Muffliato."

Hermione took the use of the conversation-muffling spell to mean he might be willing to answer a few questions, though she tried not to show that this excited her. She's been hoping to discover a secret or two in Rome and while a war hero presumed dead wasn't at all what she'd sought to find, it was certainly interesting! She started with the most important (save, perhaps, for asking him why he's not dead).

"She's yours?"

"I've raised her. I'm her... _Baba_. That's what she calls me. It's Greek," he answered, thus not quite answering. "Same as Yia Yia, or grandmother. As you may have surmised, for some time after the war ended we resided in Greece."

Hermione waited patiently for him to expand upon this, but when he spoke again, it was not with further information about the girl's parental situation or his time spent hiding out after the war.

"As you have no doubt realized, Miss Granger, Eileen is... different. Special. She has..." He glanced toward the tent. "She is not like other children."

"Is she ill?"

"Not... exactly." His gaze again diverted to the tent, lingering. He shook his head before turning back to Hermione. "She doesn't speak much. She couldn't speak at all for a long time. We've worked on it, but even now, especially when she's overtired, she regresses to using one, maybe two words, and fails to respond to questions, even ones she can answer with a nod or a shake of her head. She listens, though. She takes everything in. She's a sponge. And though she seems like she's neither absorbing nor reacting to the world around her, she absolutely _is._ One of the benefits of Legilimency is my ability to interpret her subtle attempts at communication better than someone without it. I cannot necessarily read her mind – she's a natural Occlumens and she's gotten in the habit of shutting me out, especially when she's humming or flicking her fingers – but when she's feeling a particularly strong emotion or uniquely focused on something, I can sense it, and when she wants me to understand something, she makes damn certain I can."

"Is there a name for it? For whatever she has?"

"Not yet. But we do not need a name for it. The only name that matters is the one I gave her: Eileen Pax Prince. That is the only name she needs." His eyes darted yet again toward the tent. Hermione's heart splintered at his expression, which was as loving and worried and protective as that of many of the best parents she'd known, her own and the Weasleys in particular.

"It's nice of you to have named her for your mother."

"My mother?" He looked to her sharply, with suspicion, as if she'd been caught at Hogwarts out of bed after hours. "How do you know of my mother?"

"I..." Hermione fidgeted, tugging on her sleeve. She hadn't meant to admit she'd read up on his family tree, but since the cat was out of the bag... "When Harry was using your old potions book, sixth year, I had my suspicions about the... the person who'd kept notes in it. I did some research, seeking students with the last name Prince. I came across an Eileen, born some twenty-three years before you. Knowing that you were the Half-Blood Prince, it was easy to discern that Eileen was your mother. She was in the gobstones club."

He relaxed.

And he smiled.

Hermione realized it might well be the first time she'd ever seen him smile.

He had a nice smile.

"My mother loved gobstones. She taught Eileen to play.. She lived with us, until..." His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact.

"Until?" prodded Hermione.

"She passed away, a few months ago. We're still in mourning. Well." He stood, looming imposingly over her, a familiar figure in black, and cleared his throat again. Had he been the sort to clear his throat back when she was at Hogwarts? She couldn't recall him ever doing it then but it seemed a regular habit now.

"Well, what?"

"Well, would you like me to apparate you home before I Obliviate you, or shall I..."

"Obliviate me?!" She leapt to her feet, knocking one of the yolk yellow pillows to the floor. "Why would you Obliviate me?"

"You don't think I can have the wizarding world knowing that I survived, do you? I've done well to keep myself a secret up until now – myself and Eileen – for our protection. I'll not have you destroy our lives..."

"Do you think I would do that? Do you honestly think, Professor Snape, that I would destroy your life, and your child's life? For what purpose?"

"What are you doing here in Rome, Miss Granger?"

"I... I came to research."

"To research what?"

"Ancient peoples, both Magical and Muggle, to see if I might unearth... anything interesting."

"Would the news of my survival be considered 'anything interesting?'"

"No! Not at all! I mean..." She stood up too fast, got dizzy, and gingerly touched the gauze on her forehead, wincing.

"Yes, I'll side-along apparate with you to your home first. I wouldn't want you to do yourself further harm, thus I'll ensure your safety before Obliviating you. Fair enough?"

"No! Please, Professor Snape, I won't tell a soul. You can trust me. Please don't Obliviate me. Please, I'm begging you."

He seemed surprised by her vehement pleas. "It's not painful, Miss Granger."

"Please, after what I did to my parents, please don't do it, I couldn't bear it!"

"After what you did to your parents?"

"I just know if you do it I'll spend the next several days in a fog, wondering where my night went, how I got hurt, how I got home, and I'll worry. I won't know I've been Obliviated so I'll worry that perhaps I was attacked, beaten, assaulted sexually... I may even figure out that I've had my memory tampered with and forever be haunted by the possibility of what I've been made to forget, and..."

"Hush!" He held up a hand to silence her. "How can I be certain, if I let you leave with your memory intact, you won't rush right off to Potter to share the news?"

"I haven't spoken to him in months."

"Weasley, then. Is he not your... other half?"

"We're on a break."

He cocked an eyebrow but refrained from comment. "The girl Weasley, then. Isn't she a friend of yours? Or Mr. Longbottom, whose snake decapitation skills are secondary only to his terrible memory? What about Miss Lovegood? Will I see news of my miraculous survival in that ridiculous Quibbler?"

"They're my friends, yes, but sir, I swear to you, I promise, you can trust me! Here, to show my good faith, I'll make the Unbreakable Vow!"

She knelt at his feet, holding her arm out, as she'd seen it done when she joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (it was one of the only interesting things that happened during her time there).

After an uncomfortably long pause, he took her by the arm and guided her back into a standing position.

"That will not be necessary."

"Please don't Obliviate me, Professor Snape."

"Please stop calling me Professor Snape, Miss Granger. I've gone by Prince for the past four years, and was no longer teaching for two years prior to that."

"Very well, Mr. Prince."

"No." He screwed up his overlarge nose like the name smelled sour when she said it. "No, that won't do either. You may call me Severus."

"And you can call me Hermione."

"No, I don't believe I _can_ Miss Granger. Such informality would make me uncomfortable."

"But you're alright if I call you Severus?"

"Yes."

"Alright. How long have you been in Rome, Severus."

"I've changed my mind." He summoned in a bottle of elf-made red wine from the kitchen and took two glasses out of a small cabinet against the wall beyond the tent. He held the bottle toward her and, upon her nod, began to pour. "Snape will suffice. You may call me Snape."

She half-smirked and sat back on the couch, making herself comfortable. She wasn't sure why he'd given in so easily to her request not to be Obliviated, nor did she understand why he was continuing to talk to her when, clearly, he had not been happy to see her. Perhaps he was lonely. Spending most of his time with a barely verbal child in the Muggle-heavy city of a foreign country while pretending to be dead must leave one short on adult conversation. But that was fine with her. After six months abroad, she was a little lonely too.

Thus without question she accepted the wine, fought back a yawn, curled her legs up under the throw pillow, and decided to be bold.

"So... Snape. Who's her mother?"


	3. The One Less Traveled

**CHAPTER THREE:**

 **The One Less Traveled**

 ** _Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –_**

 ** _I took the one less traveled by,_**

 ** _And that has made all the difference._**

 **-Robert Frost**

Hermione awoke with a sore back, a throbbing headache, and the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched.

She was not in the bed of her rented temporary home, as she would've expected, nor was she in any other familiar bed: not the one she'd long ago claimed at Grimmauld Place, not the one in Ron's childhood bedroom at the Burrow, not her own childhood bed in the home belonging to her long-lost parents, and certainly not in the one she'd shared in London with her gangly ginger ex...

She awoke, instead, in a bed that was low to the floor and narrow with a hard mattress, under a heavy, soft green blanket. This bed was in a vaguely familiar room, a room with white walls, a sunset painting, a tall bookshelf... and a pink and purple tent.

She sat up so quickly she made herself dizzy. She grimaced, her fingertips going to the cut above her eyebrow. As her vision focused, she understood why she'd felt like someone was staring at her.

It was because someone was staring at her.

Perched on the arm of the easy chair to the end of the couch – the couch, which had apparently been transfigured into this bed – was a silver haired little girl with impossibly dark eyes, glaring unblinkingly at her.

"Er... good morning," said Hermione.

"Afternoon," corrected Eileen.

"It's afternoon? Where is Prof... I mean, where is your Baba?"

"Shower."

"Have I been asleep all this time?"

"Witch."

"Yes, yes, we've established that I'm a witch." Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to make sense of this, trying to recall what had happened last night. She could see herself on the couch, drinking wine with Severus Snape. What had they talked about? Why had she slept here? Had he slipped something into her drink? He mustn't have Obliviated her, since she could remember falling, being found, and promising to make the Unbreakable Vow. Unless he _had_ Obliviated her, later, causing her to forget something else entirely, something she would never know she'd forgotten...

"Wand."

"Yes, I have a wand." She reached for it instinctively. She always kept it to her left when she slept, right on her bedside table, but of course as this was not her bed, there was no table... and no wand.

"Wand," said Eileen again. She reached under the decorative throw pillow and held up her finding triumphantly. "Wand!"

"That's _my_ wand. Could I have it back?"

"No. Mine."

"No, dear," Hermione spoke softly, and carefully, afraid if she startled the girl it might end up broken. "That's mine. It's very important to me. You'll get your own when you're a big girl. Could I have mine back, please?"

"No. Mine. Tent, mine. House, mine. Wand, mine. Everything mine."

Well, she was certainly more talkative during the day than at night.

"Please? If you give it back, I'll show you how to perform a spell... a spell to make paper birds, and you can keep one for a pet. Would you like that?"

Eileen cocked her head to the side and stared out the corners of her eyes, thinking. Hermione had a feeling the girl _would_ like a pet paper bird... but still wasn't too keen to give up her newly discovered 'toy.'

"You could name it," said Hermione, sweetening the deal. "What would you like to name your bird? It could be a boy or a girl, your choice, and we can even make a lovely little paper perch for it, so it can rest when it's too tired to fly. Doesn't that sound nice? What do you say?"

Eileen slipped from the arm of the chair to the bottom of the couch-turned-bed.

"Bird?"

"Yes. A paper bird, just for you."

"Mine?"

"Yes."

"Bird, mine?"

"That's right!"

Eileen started to hold out the wand, but hesitated. She pulled it back. "Witch, lie?"

"What? No! I wouldn't lie to you! I promise, I really _will_ make you a paper bird to keep as a pet, complete with a paper perch! I give you my word. Now give back my wand."

"Unbreakable Vow?" Eileen crawled off the bed and onto the floor, kneeling with one arm extended forward, as Hermione had done last night when she and Severus believed the girl to be sleeping.

"No Unbreakable Vow." Hermione's patience was wearing thin. "Just give me my wand or no bird."

"No!" Eileen scrambled to her feet, glaring at Hermione. "No bird. Wand _mine_!"

"Eileen!" Severus' sharp voice made Hermione jump but the girl did not react. "Miss Granger's wand is not a toy and it is not yours. Return it this instant."

"Mine!" She stood, stomped her feet, and pounded her fist against her thigh, clutching the wand in her other hand. "Wand, mine! Mine, mine, mine!"

When this did not seem to have any effect on glowering Severus, she abruptly opted for another tactic. Her lower lip began to tremble. A tear trickled down her cheek – just one – and she sniffled pathetically.

"Baba? Baba, mad... at... m-m-m- _me_?" Her face crumbled, her shoulders shook, and her watery eyes opened wide. The wand in her hand fell loosely to her side. She'd gone from borderline temper tantrum to looking like she'd just lost her best friend.

The tears instantly melted his no-nonsense façade.

He hurried to her, scooped her up as one would a baby, and apologized for using an angry voice. Hermione couldn't help rolling her eyes. Who knew, when she was a first year in his potion classroom, that all it would take to bring him from an unfeeling, sardonic bully to a complete pushover, begging forgiveness from a small child who'd been quite in the wrong, were some forced tears and a sad face?!

She stood, stretched, and slipped the wand right out of the Eileen's hand, which made the girl cry harder, burying her face against her father's neck. Hermione scoffed. _What an actress._

"Couldn't you have let her play with it for a few minutes?" Severus snapped.

"Baba," the child whimpered, wrapping her arms around Severus' neck as he repositioned her. "Eileen, sad."

"You've made her cry." Severus rubbed her back comfortingly, unaware that she was now smirking at Hermione over his shoulder, considering herself the victor.

Hermione wanted to be offended by his misdirected annoyance, but frankly, she found this scene rather comical. Not one to be bested by a bratty child, she slipped her wand into her back pocket and took the girl from his arms. Eileen immediately tried to go boneless, flopping backward in protest. Hermione acted as though she didn't notice,not relinquishing her hold on the child.

"Professor Snape, you mean to tell me you're a capable Legilimens who managed to spend over a decade lying to Lord Voldemort and yet you are incapable of recognizing how easily manipulated you've just been by this pink-cheeked little _faker?"_

"Eileen does not _pretend_ to cry, Miss Granger."

Hermione dropped the girl unceremoniously on the couch/bed and replied condescendingly, "Of course she doesn't."

Eileen, pouting, positioned herself on her knees and put her arms up, wanting to be held, slowly blinking her huge eyes.

"Baba?"

He looked her over carefully. Hermione could tell he was attempting to sense her emotions, but wondered if she was using Occlumency to keep him at bay. He cleared his throat as he'd done numerous times the night before.

" _Babaaa_?"

"Don't blink like that," he said finally, and Hermione smirked. She knew he'd confirmed he was indeed being used. "When you blink like that, young lady, you look like your mother. She, too, had an uncanny knack for getting people to do what they shouldn't, and the look is no more attractive on you than it was on her. Now stop those tears and come help me in the kitchen. It's past lunchtime."

Eileen gasped dramatically and fell back as if wounded. She stayed on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hands over her heart while Hermione trailed Severus into the kitchen.

"Are you satisfied, witch? You were correct. And now she's upset."

"I'm satisfied," Hermione replied, unwilling to be intimidated by his glowering visage or made to feel guilty for the spoiled brat. She rubbed her temples to soothe away the lingering headache. "I'm also confused, Professor."

"About?"

"Everything. What time is it? Why am I still here? Where are my shoes? Did I fall asleep? Did you drug me?"

"Yes, Miss Granger, you've hit on it." Sarcasm dripped from his voice as he rummaged about in an almost-empty refrigerator. "I drugged you because I wanted you in my bed all night, drooling on my pillow and snoring."

"I do not snore."

"You do snore."

"I most certainly do not! Nor do I drool!"

"I could be incorrect in my assumption that you drool, but trust me when I tell you, you snore. Not loudly, not obnoxiously, just little irregular snorts between sighs. It could almost be endearing if not for..."

"Wait, did you say I slept in your bed?" Hermione leapt up but had to grab the corner of the counter for support when the action made the room spin. She sank back onto the chair. "That was your bed?"

"No, it was the bed of Henry the eighth. I had it Owled here just for you. Don't you feel like royalty now? Careful it doesn't go to your... head." He sniggered.

Hermione was taken aback. Severus Snape, making a... joke? And then laughing at it? She felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, where people walk upside down.

"But _why_ did I sleep in your bed last night, Pr... Snape?"

With a sigh, he shut the refrigerator and opened a cabinet, which was almost as bare. "I thought it more gentlemanly than forcing you to sleep on the floor." He closed the cabinet. "I think I'll take Eileen out for lunch today. Surely you can find your way home? It has been interesting seeing you, but I'm afraid-"

"I'm not leaving until I know what happened last night! We didn't..." She waggled her eyebrows. He stared back at her with an expression of utter bemusement.

"Didn't...?"

"You _know."_

"Do I?"

"I didn't sleep _with_ you, did I?"

He smirked. "And if you did?"

"Merlin's beard!" She folded her arms on the table and set her forehead upon them, hiding her face. "What was I thinking?"

"Calm yourself, Miss Granger. After you finished your wine, one glass only, you stood to apparate yourself home. You immediately became dizzy and fell, nearly hitting your head again, but I caught you." He waved his wand, summoning a small green glass bottle from atop the liquor cabinet in the next room. "I sat you on the couch and went to get a hangover potion, assuming the liquor had simply hit you too fast – perhaps you're not used to drinking? – but when I returned you'd passed out. I tried to wake you. It was then it occurred to me that you might have a concussion from the blow to your head and should not have been apparating - or consuming alcohol - at all." He handed her the green bottle. It was labeled _For Headaches: 1 Bottle = 1 Dosage._ "Therefore, I removed your shoes and let you sleep in what is usually my bed: the couch. It pulls out. A Muggle invention. I even covered you with my blanket, which would've left me shivering all night were I not adept at warming charms. No need to thank me." (She downed the contents of the small bottle.) "I then transfigured my armchair into a second bed, on which I slept, which is why I spent the night listening to you snore."

"As I already told you, I _do not_ snore." She handed the bottle back to him, but averted her gaze, uneasy under his keen eye. "But thank you for... all of that."

"I said there's no need. Despite what you may have thought of me in your youth, Miss Granger, my cruelty does not extend to sexual contact with women too drunk, ill, or injured to consent."

Hermione realized she had insulted him and felt the heat of humiliation in her chest and face, which meant her skin, already paling from her Mediterranean summer tan, had gone bright red.

"For what it's worth, sir, I never thought you might be a cruel man with an inappropriate liking for incapacitated women. It's just that, _being_ a woman, waking up in a strange bed with no memory of the night before is a bit disconcerting. Thank you for caring for me. I know it can't be easy, having me discover you like this, taking me into your home, when clearly you crave privacy and solitude. And thank you again for not Obliviating me."

"As a point of correction, Miss Granger, I do not _crave_ solitude; I _necessitate_ it. On behalf of Eileen. While I have always been a man to highly regard my privacy, I left the wizarding world not for my sake, but for hers. I am not a cruel man; I am a realistic one, and the reality is that the world is a cruel place for magical children like her. Children like Dumbledore's sister or the Dark Lord's mother..."

Thanks to countless gossipy written during and after the war, Daily Prophet articles, she knew he was referring to Ariana Dumbledore, terrified by Muggles into nearly becoming an Obscurial, and Merope Gaunt, abused so badly she could do little more magic than a squib. Hermione narrowed her eyes to argue that those two were impacted as much by nurture as nature, whereas surely, with compassion and patience, Eileen could be _taught,_ but he continued.

"By the time most of the UK's witches and wizards reach the end of their toddler years, their names are down in the book for Hogwarts."

Her mouth opened to ask a new question but again he pressed on before she could speak.

"Yes, even yours. _Every_ magical child deemed deserving of a wizarding education. Some are noted later than others, but with most it's merely a matter of waiting until they've shown evidence of involuntary magical ability. However, every so often a magical child is born who is too different, a child who..." He glanced into the sitting room. Eileen was now standing on the couch/bed, flicking her fingers in front of one eye, the other eye covered by her free hand, making ticking noises. "Hogwarts does not accept _all_ magical children, Miss Granger. And considering she was unfortunately enough to have been brought into this world by her moth..." He let the rest of the word die on his lips and shook his head, going in another direction. "When she was two, I contacted Professor McGonagall in person. I wanted to know whether her name was down. She'd shown undeniably that she was no squib. She used to have a nasty habit of accidentally making things explode. I had hope, but..." He cleared his throat, the way he had so many times the night before. "But I've decided she does not need Hogwarts. I can teach her better privately, away from the stigma of our world. I know how they would treat her, Miss Granger. They would hate her on sight. Better not to know she exists."

"Who is her mother?"

He had refused to answer the question about her mother's identity when they were drinking, _that_ Hermione remembered.

"I cannot say. The truth is, I wasn't supposed to have taken her." He kept his voice low, his gaze never leaving Eileen. "The people I liberated her from... they would not... they were her _legal..._ but she was... and I..."

Hermione leaned forward on the table, studying his face. She'd never seen him this way before, unable to organize his thoughts into words, with tender concern and raw emotional pain etched across his pale face. Before she could prompt him to go on, he cleared his throat again, straightened up, and tugged at the high collar of his shirt. "Eileen! Get your headscarf and shoes. We're going out for lunch."

She squealed, jumped up and down, and hurried into her tent, the wand tantrum apparently forgotten.

"May I join you?" Hermione asked, a twinge of desperation in her tone. She wasn't ready to say goodbye, not yet, not knowing it was likely he'd disappear and she'd never see him again, never find out why he thought letting the world think him dead was the best way to protect a 'different' child, a child he might have actually... _stolen._

After a moment's pause, he nodded.

She thanked him, asked directions to the toilet (it was down the hall, only door on the left), quickly used a cleaning spell on her breath and teeth, and tried to use water from the sink to tame her bushy unbrushed hair. When she returned to the sitting room, Eileen was wearing a dress identical to the one she'd had on the night before but in dark purple, with black tights and little low-heeled black boots. Her hair was again gathered under a scarf, fastened in the back with a silver clasp that resembled a snake curled around her bun. Severus was helping her into her coat.

"This is very pretty," Hermione said, touching the clasp, though honestly she hated it – it reminded her of the silver snake ring she'd seen on the finger of Bellatrix Lestrange when she was tortured at Malfoy Manor. Still, she knew Slytherins enjoyed their serpents, and she wanted to try to better her relations with the girl.

"Yia Yia," Eileen said pleasantly. She tapped the snake's head. "Mine."

"It was my mother's," Severus translated. "She gave it to Eileen shortly after she became ill. They were very close. It has not been easy since her passing, not for either of us."

"Yia Yia," whispered Eileen, her smile gone, her shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," said Severus.

Eileen sniffled, taking on a genuine expression of sadness this time, not one meant to manipulate. She buried her face against Severus' leg.

 _Dammit, Hermione,_ she scolded herself. She couldn't even manage to compliment the girl without making a small mess of it. With a sigh, she pulled on her trainers, grabbed her coat, and followed Severus and Eileen out the door.

She recognized where they were once they'd made it to the main road. Not terribly far from the ruins she'd been exploring the night before. Very quickly, Eileen grew tired of walking and requested, "Up? Up!" Severus, as if she were a toddler, obliged.

"This is one of our favorite places," said Severus once they'd finally reached the restaurant. "The seafood selection is excellent."

Over skate and broccoli soup, Hermione told Severus and Eileen a little about her travels thus far.

"Six countries in six months. I'd planned to spend two months each in my last three countries, but I think I may alter it to three months each in two. I don't feel I'm in one place long enough to learn enough to have made each trip worthwhile."

"And what is it you wish to learn, Miss Granger?"

"I don't know, exactly. Everything. Something new. Like I told you last night, I want to go to a place full of complex documented history and learn something no one else has, to discover a long buried secret or solve an ancient mystery."

Severus smiled. (And, as she'd noticed the night before, it really was a nice smile. The crinkled corners of his eyes softened his entire face.) He wiped a dribble of soup from Eileen's chin, placed her napkin in her lap, and took a long sip of wine. Just as the silence was starting to make Hermione antsy, he spoke.

"No, Miss Granger, I can imagine one month in each country is not enough time for you to learn everything, discover buried secrets, and solve mysteries. Perhaps a three month window in which to change the world would suit you better."

She knew that he was teasing, but she didn't mind.

"The world is a beautiful place, Professor. And living in London, working at a desk in the Ministry, seeing the same people and having the same conversations and going the same places, I felt as though I wasn't experiencing any of it. After the war ended, I was so grateful just to be alive, to know that a normal life was possible again, and I suppose I embraced the normalcy. But settling down at age eighteen... I could have gone to University, I could have found an interesting apprenticeship, I could've had a clandestine love affair, I could've gone backpacking across Switzerland, I could have seen America, I could have..."

"I do not know what 'backpacking' is," he interrupted. "But tell me more about this clandestine love affair."

"Professor!" She jerked her head toward Eileen, who was staring into her soup like Trelawney into her crystal ball. She was also twirling her spoon, not eating with it, and humming softly.

"Why do you insist upon calling me Professor, Miss Granger?"

"Why do you insist upon calling me Miss Granger, Professor?"

"Is it not your name? Have you married since I saw you last? I realize several hours have passed. Perhaps, while I was in the shower, you ran off and eloped? If so, surely your beloved must be worried about you. Let me guess... Weasley? Your break has ended? Though the gossip columnists presumed readers would've been happier to see you with Potter, I read the news of his own nuptials some two years ago."

Suffice it to say, she did not appreciate his snark. "I am not married, not to Ronald Weasley nor to anyone else. I merely meant you could call me _Hermione,_ if you weren't insistent upon being so bloody formal, but since you _are_ being so formal, I might as well call you Professor. I do not feel comfortable with Snape, and you didn't like the way Mr. Prince sounded on my lips."

His eyes darted to her lips in response to her words. Feeling awkward and suddenly less bold, she bit down on the lower one.

"Very well." His mouth curled into a sort of curious half-smile. "I shall henceforth call you Hermione and you have permission to address me as Severus. Happy?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, to your request for a mystery, I may know of one that needs solving right here in Rome, but perhaps the stakes would not be high enough for you... You probably wouldn't be interested..."

"I'm interested!" she exclaimed, perhaps a little too eagerly. Several other diners glanced their way. In a whisper, she added, "I'm interested, no matter the stakes."

"Let's talk about it later, then. When we're not surrounded by so many... Muggles. In the interim, which country has been your favorite thus far?"

Over the rest of lunch, he asked her relatively impersonal questions about Greece, Ireland, Germany, Austria, and France, and even offered up a few stories of his own about times spent abroad in various great cities across Europe. He gave little specific personal information, but by the time they were rising to leave she knew he'd lived not far from Athens when Eileen was a toddler and that he, his daughter, and his mother had spent nearly a year living in Romania, during which time he found employment at a wizarding apothecary and was pleased to learn that, unlike in the United Kingdom, people there were generally far enough removed from the second war that it rarely came up in conversation, thus he was able to expose Eileen to a magical community without fear of being recognized.

"What changed?" Hermione asked. "Why did you leave?"

"Rita Skeeter." He sneered. Obviously he had about as love and respect for the Daily Prophet reporter as Hermione had. "She chased a story about an allegedly thrown Quidditch match that led to the Romanians making it to the World Cup for the first time in over a century. I spotted her in the Magical Market and knew it was only a matter of time before we were found out. We packed our belongings that afternoon and were gone before nightfall."

"Vampire," said Eileen. It was the first word she'd spoken since ordering "Soup-Skate."

"She's not a vampire," said Severus. He lifted Eileen – this time, she didn't even have to ask him to carry her – and placed Muggle money on the table to cover their check. "She's soul-sucking, like a Dementor, not blood-sucking, like a vampire." He turned to Hermione. "Eileen spotted Skeeter before I did and took an instant disliking to her. My daughter is an excellent judge of character. Though I can't say why she's so insistent the woman is a vampire."

"Have you checked her teeth? Perhaps she is. Eileen was right about me being a Mudblood witch. How can we be certain Rita Skeeter isn't a vampire?"

Eileen smiled. Gratefully, she reached out and gently pet Hermione's hair, as if stroking a bunny.

"Don't encourage her," he replied.

When they reached the point at which Severus and his little girl would need to cross the street to return to their apartment, he asked her again to promise not to speak of his survival and child to anyone.

"I won't," she swore. "But must we say goodbye? You said you might know of a little mystery I could solve. How can I solve it if I don't know what it is?"

"Every time we meet a crossroads, we make a choice, Miss... _Hermione._ We choose to go or to stay. We choose the rocky path or the smooth one. We choose safety or danger, familiarity or adventure. I chose to go into hiding. You chose to escape the monotony of your life. I chose to leave Romania behind. You chose to come to Rome. I chose a quiet life. You've chosen adventure. Now I am choosing to go home and go on with my life, and you..."

"I am choosing to solve this little mystery you've teased me with. I appreciate that you've agreed not to Obliviate me, _Severus_." It was the first time she'd used his first name since being granted permission and she could tell by the subtle raise of his eyebrow that he much preferred this than the alternative. "You cannot tell me you have a little mystery after I've told you I'm seeking one then _choose_ to go off down a path by yourself, leaving me wondering in which direction I should head. Please, you cannot torment me in such a way! That, sir, would be cruel."

He hoisted Eileen up a little higher, let his eyes sweep over Hermione's figure in a non-sexualized but appraising way, and shot her a smug smile.

"I suppose, if you're _that_ curious, I should _at least_ give you a bit more information. Very well. Return to my home tomorrow at midnight. What you need to see is not in a place we can easily get to, but tomorrow, when the moon is full, it will be easiest to do so."

"I'll be there at midnight exactly."

He walked away, leaving Hermione with a look of satisfaction on her face, but as soon as she'd apparated back to her own rented home, it hit her.

He wanted her to see him again.

He wanted her to want to solve this mystery.

He wanted her to beg him for it, rather than simply inviting her to assist him.

And she'd done exactly what he'd wanted her to do.

"Severus Snape," she said aloud. "You're as much a master manipulator as your mysterious little girl."

* * *

 **A/N:**

I realize it's not a 'jump right in' start, but I thought a little slow(er) burn would be fun. Things start to heat up over the next three chapters. Also, please go easy on Eileen. As Severus said, she's... different. :) Anyway, thanks for reading, reviewing, following, and adding to faves!

 **-AL  
**


	4. White in the Moon

**CHAPTER FOUR:**

 **White in the Moon**

 ** _White in the moon the long road lies..._**

 ** _Still, still the shadows stay:_**

 ** _My feet upon the moonlit dust_**

 ** _Pursue the ceaseless way..._**

 **-A. E. Housman**

Severus could hardly keep his eyes open.

He'd been up most of the night, first worrying about Hermione, then scheming, then worrying again, then comforting Eileen through one of her night-terrors, then worrying about Eileen, and finally scheming again.

Why did he have to go and tell Hermione he knew of a little mystery she could solve?

He knew she would want to know more. He knew she was the type to fix her mind on a mystery and not rest until she'd solved it. He knew this meant he would have to interact with the insufferable know-it-all again.

"You fucking dunderhead," he muttered, poking around in the refrigerator. He really needed to visit the Muggle market. They couldn't keep eating at restaurants on a regular basis as they'd been doing since his mother passed. Eventually, the money he had in savings would run out and he didn't make enough brewing and selling potions under a pseudonym to keep them fed and sheltered for long.

"Baba?" Eileen tugged at the back of the t-shirt he'd (barely) slept in. "No witch."

Giving up on his search for food, he closed the door, and turned to the child.

"You dislike Miss Granger?"

"No. No lie."

"What lie?"

"Baba." She pointed a bony index finger up at him, fixing him under a penetrating gaze. "Baba lie."

Severus settled into a kitchen chair and pulled the girl into his lap.

"I _did_ lie to her, didn't I?"

Eileen closed her eyes, but he knew she was listening.

"I shouldn't have."

She rested her cheek against his chest.

"Will you be angry if she comes back tonight?"

She emitted a whiny noise.

He kissed her temple. "It's just _one_ night."

"No."

"You'll get to return to the ruins after dark."

"No witch."

"I think she likes you."

Eileen lifted her cheek from his chest and regarded him carefully, her head cocked to the side. He could tell she liked the idea of being liked... but ultimately disliked the idea of a woman liking him even more.

He cleared his throat and tried to look stern.

"It's not for _you_ to decide whether or not she returns. If Baba wishes to invite a friend over once in awhile..."

"No, Baba. No friend. No witch." She pointed to his chest as she said his name, then her own chest as she said her own. "Baba, Eileen, no witch."

He sighed.

The girl had always been clingy, ever since he took her away from that hell she'd been sent to after her mother's death, but it had gotten so much worse since his own mother died. Before the illness, he could go out, sometimes all night, and not worry; she was safe and content home with his mother. After her passing, Eileen went from being merely a bit overly attached to being positively impossible. He hadn't even been able to shower during the day for the first three weeks; he had to wait until she was asleep. She sat in the hall and cried every time he had to use the toilet because she hated being on the other side of the door. She couldn't sleep unless they were in the same room.

Then the night-terrors, which she'd had since she was a toddler, intensified.

She went from crying and shaking and needing a cuddle to having all out fits, stuck somewhere between asleep and awake, convulsing and screaming, unable to be soothed. Sometimes for hours.

It was damn exhausting.

Minerva McGonagall had warned him it would be.

She'd had a child like Eileen, born midway through her seventh year at Hogwarts. A rare and special child, with clear gifts and clearer challenges. A child who earned stares and whispers from fellow members of the wizarding community rather than the admiration and respect such innate talent should command. A child who would never be permitted to attend the school at which her young parents thrived and later taught.

That child hadn't lived past twelve.

The crushing fear of committing dangerous acts of accidental magic had led the child to becoming an Obscurial.

He would not let that happen to Eileen.

 _It doesn't matter where you take her,_ Minerva had written recently. _You cannot escape what she is or who she is any more than you can escape who you are, who you've always been, or what her mother was, or..._

Severus tried to force out the memory of the letter, but his former colleague's words reverberated unpleasantly around in his mind.

"Baba? Tummy." Eileen rubbed her stomach as it growled. "Hungry."

"Let's get dressed and go out for breakfast." He kissed the top of her silvery-haired head, set her down, and led her into what had been his mother's room to choose a dress from the tall cedar wardrobe. Each of her fall dresses were the same style and material but different muted colors. Today she selected chocolate brown with white tights and a copper headscarf. He then selected his own attire – nearly the same every day: high-collared black shirt, frock coat, black trousers – and headed toward the loo to change.

"Baba?" She tugged at the back of his sleep shirt again.

"Yes?"

He turned to find her gazing up at him, an endearing expression of hope on her face.

"Paper bird?"

"Paper bird?"

"For Eileen?"

"Say 'for me,' not 'for Eileen,'" he corrected. She was smart. He knew she was smart. But speech remained difficult for her.

"Paper bird, for me?"

"You want me to make you a paper bird?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Eileen did not seem to have an answer. She stared at him for several seconds, not blinking, then tilted her head, raised her hand, and began flicking her fingers close to her left eye. Severus could hear Minerva's voice in his head again, reading her letter aloud:

 _You cannot escape what she is, or who she is..._

-0-0-0-

Hermione woke up earlier than usual and practically bounced out of bed. She hurried in for a shower, her mind racing. A mystery! Severus Snape knew of a mystery! She couldn't bloody wait.

She _needed_ a mystery.

She needed a goal. A task. A _purpose._

She was enjoying her leisure time, if it could be considered leisure time, as she traveled from place to place learning and writing notes and reading and trying to immerse herself in each culture, both magical and Muggle, both modern and Ancient, but despite the ever-changing scenery, she was still suffering on account of not being challenged. She was _desperate_ to be challenged.

Like first year, when she, Harry, and Ron worked together to save the Sorcerer's Stone.

Or second year, when she figured out that the monster in the Chamber was a basilisk (but got Petrified before she could share the news).

Or sixth year, when she suspected the Half-Blood Prince was a Princess instead and, though she hadn't been right, she managed to track down Severus Snape's mother's maiden name.

Now Harry was content to keep all of his daily excitement confined to the Auror Office and Ron had just last year left his job at the Ministry to join his brother George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Such a disappointment. Not that she could expect differently from Harry. He was doing exactly as he'd wanted to do. He was helping their world but keeping it separate from his life with his new wife and his even newer baby.

No, it was Ron that had her disappointed.

Had he always been so eager to settle?

Of course they'd all been seeking comfort and normalcy right after the war, but she hadn't suspected five years out he'd be adverse to travel and adventure and education. She should have been, she supposed. He was never big on academia, so she couldn't fault him for not sharing her interest in curling up at night with a good textbook from the local wizarding library. But she hadn't anticipated his "life's plan" to marry by twenty-five, have at least two children by thirty, and subsequently turn her into his mother.

She was not ready to be his mother. Or anybody else's, for that matter.

Thus she was more excited about Severus Snape's secret mystery than she could remember being about anything since... since they figured out that Hufflepuff's Cup must be hidden in the Gringotts vault of Bellatrix Lestrange and began orchestrating the break-in. Jupiter, that was something. The plotting, the Polyjuice, the dragon escape...

Perhaps it seemed sick, given what the woman had done to her, but Hermione couldn't help wishing she'd somehow been able to enjoy the short time she spent transformed into Bellatrix. She would probably never again in her life feel that powerful, that feared, or (dare she even think it) that beautiful. Not that Hermione considered herself ugly. She was... nice looking. Decent. Wholesome. Reasonably attractive. Symmetrical. Slender. Unremarkable.

Disappointingly plain.

She sighed.

Those were all words the Daily Prophet had used to describe her over the years, and though she wasn't one to get terribly caught up in her own looks, she couldn't help but be bothered by the fact that the _best_ she could get from them was "Reasonably attractive."

She hadn't felt "Disappointingly plain" as Bellatrix Lestrange, though, that was certain.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Hermione?" she scolded herself aloud, glancing down at the blood-status slur scrawled into her forearm. _MUDBLOOD._ She picked up the soap and scrubbed it as if all it needed was a good cleaning to wash it from her arm... and her mind. Of course, it not only didn't fade, but the water and the attention somehow combined to make it look even redder, even more obvious.

She redirected her mental focus back to Severus Snape and his odd little girl. He'd said he'd _taken_ her... did that mean she'd been kidnapped? Had he stolen her from her mother? Did they have some sort of domestic dispute? She'd heard of parents taking their children and running away before. Perhaps he had good reason. But what good reason?

She set down the soap and picked up the shampoo.

Hours later, after a late dinner she was too excited to eat, Hermione fastened her frazzled hair into a ponytail, pulled on her trainers and a thick wool jumper, smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle on her jeans, and stared intently at the clock in her rented apartment.

Ten minutes to midnight.

She was planning to apparate at two minutes to twelve, appearing in a dark alleyway she'd passed on the way from his flat and the restaurant, so she'd be knocking on his door at exactly midnight. She glanced at herself in the full-length freestanding mirror in the bedroom. Her stomach fluttered. Did she look alright?

Eight minutes to midnight.

"It's not a date, Hermione," she scolded herself. "It doesn't matter how you look."

But, for some reason, it did matter. She wanted to be comfortable and able to easily move around through the ruins (she had no desire to fall and hit her head again) but she also wanted to look... presentable. For some inexplicable reason, she did not want him to view her the way the Prophet did. "Disappointingly plain." Or worse, "wholesome." _Wholesome,_ like a child. She _was_ wholesome, that was the truth, but he didn't need to see her that way.

She wanted him to see her as an adult. An equal.

A woman.

Five minutes to midnight.

"Why, Hermione?" she stared intently at her reflection. "He's a sullen, snarky old ex-professor... who disappeared, letting the world think him dead, and now lives in Rome as the single parent of a mysterious child. No one you need to impress."

Four minutes to midnight.

Though he was as dark and brooding as ever, she'd enjoyed what she could remember of her time sitting beside him on his couch, drinking wine and chatting, and she'd enjoyed even more having lunch together the following day. She liked the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled. He was funnier than expected, though it was a dry wit (quite unlike Ron's juvenile sense of humor) and a couple of times she'd thought he might even be flirting with her...

But no, that was ridiculous. Surely she was imagining things. What interest could he possibly have in her?

Three minutes to midnight.

She twitched with anticipation. Almost time! Whatever this mystery was, she was ready for it.

Two minutes to midnight.

Finally.

She disapparated with a POP.

-0-0-0-

Severus buttoned up Eileen's coat before heading into the bedroom to retrieve his own. A glance at the bed brought to mind an image from the inappropriate dream he'd had the night before... in which he was panting over Eileen's mother, imploring the crazy witch to call out his name. He cleared his throat, grabbed hold of the tall bedpost, and tried to force the image from his mind, but it was immediately replaced by an almost equally invasive mental image: Hermione Granger, sitting beside him on his couch, drinking wine and engaging in an in-depth discussion regarding the veneration and later persecution of a small sect of witches renowned in Ancient Greece. He couldn't help noticing she'd grown into quite a woman... clever... quick-witted...

"Stop it, Severus," he scolded himself. He grabbed his frock coat, which was slung across the bed, pulled it on, and returned to the sitting room, where his daughter was waiting, kneeling on the easy chair.

"No mystery," she said, glaring furiously at her father. "No witch. No lie."

"I've thought it over and it's not quite a lie, Eileen. We _did_ stumble upon a mystery, didn't we? What's the harm in letting her solve it as we did?"

Eileen hopped off the chair, threw her ragdoll to the floor, and kicked it savagely toward him. "NO! No witch! Mystery, mine. Statue, mine. _Baba_ , _mine!"_

"Eileen, please..." A knock at the door interrupted what was to have been his plea for her to behave. With one final glance at the girl, who was now cradling her abused ragdoll, he went to the door. "Miss Granger. You're punctual."

"I've always valued my own time, Professor Snape, thus it would be unfair of me not to value that of others'. Punctuality is, therefore, of the utmost importance to me."

"You've returned to addressing me as Professor Snape." He stepped back to grant her entrance. As the hall was narrow, her body brushed against his as she passed and thanks to his sensitive, overlarge nose he couldn't help inhaling the scent of her shampoo. Japanese Cherry Blossom.

"Only because you called me Miss Granger." She stepped into the sitting room. He followed close behind. "Hello, Eileen."

Eileen sneered at her, eyes narrowed, looking very much like Severus used to when standing in front of a classroom of particularly dense pupils. Hermione smiled back pleasantly.

"Are we ready to depart?" Severus' eye caught Eileen's. She had just filled up her cheeks with air, prepared to make herself pass out, but he was in no mood. He lifted her, kissed her temple, and whispered in her ear, "I ask you for so little, my Corax." (Corax, the Greek word for a raven or crow, had been his mother's nickname for her since she joined them in Greece, unused since the woman's death.)

Eileen wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled against him with a sigh, giving up her determination to run Miss Granger out of their home and lives forever... at least for tonight.

"You wore suitably dark clothing," Severus said, looking Hermione over. Plain black jumper, dark blue jeans. Even in this, she looked... _good._ He cleared his throat. No. Inappropriate. He could not be thinking of her in that way. For fuck's sake, the girl was – what? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?

"Yes, sir!"

"How is your head wound?"

"Doesn't hurt anymore. I changed the bandage. There may be a scar, but it will be small. Thank you for healing it."

"I told you before, no need to thank me." He cleared his throat again. He hated having to do that all the time. It had been this way since he awoke from his coma months after the Final Battle; the internal scarring from the snake's fangs and poison left him feeling like an angry cat had scratched him all over from the inside out. He'd survived the attack, obviously, but not unchanged, physically, mentally, and emotionally. For the better, his mother said. But he remained unconvinced.

"So," said Hermione cheerfully. "Tell me about this mystery!"

"It is better if I show you." Balancing Eileen on his hip like a toddler, he offered an arm to Hermione. "Shall we depart?"

-0-0-0-

She took his arm and closed her eyes, feeling the uncomfortable yet familiar tug and pop of side-along apparition. When she again lifted her lids, they were standing among the ruins, not far from where she'd found Eileen after hurting herself.

He stepped away from her and set the girl down, taking her hand. The full moon gave them plenty of light. Perhaps too much. Hermione glanced around nervously, wondering if they'd meet a guard or be spotted by a tourist walking up above, beyond the barriers. Severus did not seem worried. He hurried forward, Eileen by his side, to the sculpted bust Hermione had noticed the other night.

"Eileen very much likes this woman," he said. "We've been to see her many times. She's inexplicably drawn to her. One evening, as I searched for a clue as to whom this woman may have been – you see, this sculpting technique was not used as the time this place was new – I found this." He waved his wand and muttered an incantation she couldn't quite hear. The bust lifted from its pedestal and swiveled around to reveal the back. "Look, here, along her shoulders, where the back of a dress might have been were she wearing one. A series of..."

"Ancient Runes!" Hermione's heart raced. She'd studied Ancient Runes with Professor Bathsheda Babbling beginning third year. She recognized a couple straight away, but was unable to decipher the whole message, as she was decidedly out of practice. "This first one is Hydra, the symbol for the number nine."

"We would like to know who she was and why she was positioned here, of all places, since obviously she was not a part of the original aesthetic..."

"Eihwaz!" exclaimed Hermione, lightly running her fingers over the next one she recognized. Her face lit up as she found herself happier and more invigorated than she'd been in her travels thus far. Hell, more than she'd been in years. "I mixed this one up with Ehwaz on my O.W.L.s! It means defense. Defense... Perhaps she was made to represent a goddess. The goddess of war, perhaps? War, defense? Minerva was the name of the Roman goddess of wisdom and war..."

She was so excited to be able to make use to the history she'd learned since arriving in Rome a couple of weeks before, information came tumbling out as it used to when she was a kid, imploring her two best mates to read Hogwarts, A History.

"The name Minerva means intellect to the Romans, but it is believed the name and goddess came from the Etruscans' Menrva, whose name comes from the word meaning 'to remember.' She was morphed into the Greek goddess Athena, which is where war comes from. She was also the goddess of poetry, crafts, and medicine. Medicine! Perhaps this bust represents a Healer. But how does that relate to defense? A defense against evil spells or charms, perhaps? It _has_ to relate to the wizarding world. Muggles have runes but their symbols and meanings are not the same, and I would know 'Eihwaz' anywhere. Minerva was renowned for her chastity."

"She famously fought off the advances of Mars, the god of war," Severus broke in.

"This bust looks nothing like Minerva, though," Hermione mused. "She has no shield..."

"She has no arms."

"And her hair is... this is not the hair of an Ancient Roman goddess."

"Precisely how we know she does not belong here."

"We need to decipher these runes. Oh, why didn't I bring my Ancient Runes sixth year textbook with me on this trip? I had no idea I might have use for it. Perhaps I could Owl Ginny or Luna and have one of them send..."

"You shall do no such thing," interrupted Severus in a no-nonsense tone. "They will want to know why, and this is our secret, Miss Grang... Hermione. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But where will I find...?"

"I am in possession of the book you seek."

"You should have brought it! You knew the runes were here. You knew we would need..." her voice trailed off. "You already knew. You knew what the symbols were. You've even translated them already, haven't you?"

"Of course not." Severus was completely blank-faced. "I did not recognize the symbols as Ancient Runes. Perhaps I should have, but I did not study that subject at Hogwarts. I only have a copy of that particular book because Ancient Runes was a passion of my mother's."

Hermione wasn't certain she believed him, but she nodded as if she'd accepted this. After all, why would he lie? He clearly hadn't been happy to see her and didn't want her around... though he'd mentioned the mystery knowing she'd want to solve it...

He was nothing if not an enigma.

"I wish I'd brought a quill and parchment. I need to copy the runes so I can decipher them from the book."

"There is a charm for that." He waved his wand across the symbols, murmured a word she could not make out, and then flicked his wand twice in the air. The symbols appeared, gold and bright, in the air in front of them. He flicked the wand a third time and the gold letters disappeared into smoke.

"Brilliant bit of magic, Professor!" she exclaimed. "Did you create that spell?"

"Eileen's mother did. It was one of the only two decent things the sadistic bitch managed to do with her life."

So now Hermione knew without doubt that the girl's mother had been a witch, and from the sound of it, Severus wasn't her biggest fan.

"Mumma?" asked Eileen, staring wide-eyed up at him. "Sad Mumma."

"I'm sorry, Eileen." He hugged her. "I try to avoid speaking ill of her in Eileen's presence, but as I am human, I am not infallible."

"Not nice, Baba," scolded Eileen. "Mumma die."

"Is there anything else for us to see here?" asked Hermione, eager to break the tension by changing the subject back to the mini mystery. "We could return to your home, I could look through your book, we could..."

"There's more." He lifted Eileen, who snuggled against his neck, and carried her down a dirt path over a small hill. Hermione hurried behind.

"A series of the same symbols is etched into the stone here, but at the base of another well-known symbol... Lumos." He illuminated the bottom of the pillar, a white stone set into the ground, at the bottom of which was a carving. Sure enough, there were the same symbols, but in reverse, as he'd said. But they were all etched under a straight line, the bottom of a triangle. A triangle severed by a vertical line. A line that ran down the center of a circle.

"The symbol of the Deathly Hallows!" she gasped, bending down to look more closely, running her fingers over the lines. "But what is it doing _here_? The Peverell Brothers never had any connection to Rome. If they had, I would have found it. After the war, when I returned to Hogwarts, I thoroughly researched their lineage, their history, absolutely everything I could find. I had a lot of time, you see, since Harry and Ron didn't return to school, and I... All of my free time was spent in the library." She stood and began pacing, as she often did when her mind was working too quickly for her mouth to keep up. "Whenever I wasn't studying for my N.E.W.T.s, I read up on everything I was curious about when on the run but couldn't fully investigate, including the truth behind... but then, maybe... and if one of them had... or a follower... A Xeno Lovegood type, or even a dark wiz... but not... No. Or yes! There's no way... unless, of course... perhaps... I didn't... if... there could... and then... Oh!" She grinned at her former professor and his little girl, her eyes shining with excitement, her chest rising and falling unusually fast as her brain filtered through possibilities. "Well?"

Severus and Eileen stared at her, twin expressions on their pale faces, each with one eyebrow raised and their lips in a straight line.

 _"Well?"_ Hermione asked again, more emphatically.

"Could you put that in a more coherent way, Hermione?"

She let out a puff of air, aghast at their inability to follow her thoughts.

"I have to translate the symbols! Then we can figure out how they relate to the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. That should lead us to figuring out who the bust of the statue is supposed to be and then we can figure out why she's here when she clearly wasn't created during the Ancient Roman period during which people lived here, in what is now the ruins. I studied the Peverell brothers extensively during my time at Hogwarts after the war and found nothing to indicate any of them spent any significant time in Rome, however, their tales, once reported as parable by Beedle the Bard, inspired a cult-like following of those seeking the Hallows, wizards like Xenophillius Lovegood, and, with darker intentions, both Grindelwald and Tom Riddle. We need to decipher the runes. That's stage one."

"Shall we apparate?" He flicked the light of his wand off and held out his arm as he had in the sitting room.

She hurried forward to take it, stumbled over a root, and fell against his chest. He caught her as if in a hug and let his hand linger on her lower back for perhaps a moment longer than necessary. She couldn't help noticing, in the seconds she had her face against his chest, that he smelled good. Better than she would've expected. Like soap and cedar and... _man_. He cleared his throat and she abruptly straightened, going pink in the face.

"Something wrong, Miss... Hermione?" he asked, his voice deep and steady. His fingertips moved from her hip to her wrist. "You are ready to apparate?"

"Yes, yes of course. I merely... tripped."

"Have you always been so... clumsy?"

"I..." She chewed her lip. "When I get excited, sometimes, I..."

"You lose the ability to control your physical actions when... _excited_?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Something in the way he said 'excited' sent a flutter of warmth from her stomach on down...

"Take me home with you, please," she requested in a tone as professional as possible, standing unnaturally erect, with a slight lilt of her chin. "There is work to be done."

-0-0-0-

He knew he should feel guilty.

When she expressed her suspicion that he'd already solved the mystery, he almost came clean.

But she'd looked so happy to find and recognize the runes.

Not that he cared about making her happy.

But he felt he owed her. She'd saved his life the night of the Final Battle, though she hadn't known it. He felt badly that she'd spent the past five years believing she'd abandoned him there on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, dead.

Besides, she'd been the brightest witch of her age. His most capable and hard-working pupil by far. Earner of the most O.W.L.s and highest overall scores of any witch since Minerva McGonagall herself. He hated to see her talent and intelligence go to waste in a windowless office in the Ministry of Magic.

And he couldn't deny that she was pleasant on the eyes as well.

Fuck.

He hadn't had a woman in over a year.

Not that he had any interest in Hermione Granger, Golden Trio Gryffindor Princess. She was too young for him. Too clever. Too enthusiastic.

She was too damn _good_.

But he might not mind if she wanted to stick around just a _little_ longer.

* * *

 **A/N:**

After writing such an involved multi-character mixed-Point-of-View fic (When Sorrows Come) I wanted to keep this one in a close Third Person POV following Hermione only... but Severus wouldn't get out of my head during this chapter, so that's why the beginning opened with him, then I went with his perspective again later, and now I'm considering adding more scenes zeroing in on his view of things in the future... but I'm undecided. As readers do you like having both perspectives, hate it, or not care either way? Does it add or detract from the story?

Also, I find it really interesting that several reviewers thought Eileen reminded them of Luna! That was totally unintentional but as a fan of hers, I love it.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, adding to faves, and following (I'm now up to over 100 followers! I've never had that many this early in a fic before, so I'm excited!).

 **-AL**


	5. The Misty Solitudes

**CAUTION:  
**

 **MILD LEMON ALERT**

 **Consider this your only citrus-related warning.**

 **Expect smut in some future chapters.**

 **Thanks!**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE:  
**

 **The Misty Solitudes**

 ** _If you enter the woods  
Of a summer evening late,  
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools  
Where the otter whistles his mate,  
(They fear not men in the woods,  
Because they see so few.)  
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,  
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,  
Steadily cantering through  
The misty solitudes,  
As though they perfectly knew  
The old lost road through the woods ...  
But there is no road through the woods._**

 **-Rudyard Kipling**

Severus changed Eileen into pajamas and put her to bed, then poured glasses of wine for himself and Hermione and settled beside her on the couch, the Ancient Runes textbook between them. Using the spell the girl's mother had created, he recreated the runes in glowing light against the darkness of the room around them.

"Amazing," breathed Hermione. She plopped the huge book in her lap and opened it to page 117 to find the first unknown rune.

"Alone, or solo," she said. She flipped ahead to page 139 for the next rune. "Warrior." She kept flipping to page 172. He placed a hand on the page, halting her.

"You remember which page each of these symbols is on?"

"Yes." She puffed up, clearly proud of this. "I read this book cover to cover multiple times while at Hogwarts. The translations of seven-hundred-fifty of the most common runes can be found between page 100 and page 175. They're organized by shape, to make it easy to find a definition if you have a rune but not the translation. Then from page 176 through 190 the words are listed alphabetically with the rune translations below. See how this one is made by two different sets of curved lines, barely touching? Those that are comprised of two separate markings start here..." She turned to page 151 and began running her finger down the right column. "And then you look for this straight center line, a lot of runes have one, and... here! This one is 'broken.' So far this means we have 'Nine, Solo warrior, broken defense...'Nine, followed by solo – that's interesting. What could the nine refer to? Unless it's nine solo warriors, but... no. I don't know yet. Let's press on."

Severus sat back, sipping his wine, genuinely impressed. It had taken him far longer to translate these runes. He'd had no idea there was a method to the madness that was the order in the book. He wondered whether she'd learned this from crazy old Professor Babbling or whether she'd figured it out on her own, but he strongly suspected it was the latter, as his mother had taken Babbling's courses through N.E.W.T.s but hadn't given him this tip.

It took only two hours for her to do what had taken him three days.

"It seems to be a... poem. A poem and a riddle. It translates into rhyme in English, which further supports our position that this was not carved into that statue by a denizen of Ancient Rome, or someone Italian at all. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows combined with the use of runes is proof that the person who did it was not a Muggle, thus I'm presuming our carver was a British witch or wizard... yes... yes, must be..."

She leaned forward, studying her notes, scrawled neatly onto borrowed parchment with his best quill. She chewed the end of it, which would have annoyed him, except he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have those lips on him rather than on his quill. He cleared his throat, more loudly than usual, and she jolted, looking to him with wide eyes.

"My apologies." He tugged at his collar. "It is a habit I developed after the snake's attack."

"I'm sorry," she said. She set the quill down beside the inkwell on the seat of the kitchen chair she'd summoned in to use as a small desk and turned to him. "I tried to save you. I held that cloth on your neck and called for Fawkes. I thought... I thought perhaps... I knew his tears contained healing properties. I thought if he cried over you, you wouldn't die. But your breathing was so shallow. And then you just... stopped. I have no idea how you survived, but I'm sorry for leaving you there. If I hadn't been certain you were gone..."

"Fawkes came."

Her brown eyes widened even more, reflecting the flickering candlelight that lit the dim room (he'd turned out the electric lights when Eileen went to bed, explaining she otherwise could not sleep).

"He came?"

"I awoke to find him crying over me, as you apparently intended, with tears dripping directly into my wound. As the poison had already spread, I was too weak to join the Battle, caught somewhere between life and death, thus I used what little energy I had left to apparate away."

"To where?"

"My mother's house. My childhood home. She was a decent Healer. She had a lifetime of experience, thanks to the alcoholic fuck she married."

Hermione was put slightly ill at ease by the sudden harshness in his voice, but she whispered a follow-up question. "Your father? Did he hit her?"

"They hit each other, but that's not why she was adept at Healing. He would go out, get drunk, mouth off, get himself roughed up and stumble home. He had many a head wound like yours." He gently brushed back the tendrils of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, falling across the bandage on her forehead. "She'd actually been a mediwitch before... me... but she gave up magic to marry _him_ and only used it during their marriage to care for him when he was sick or injured."

"She was able to help you, then? I mean, obviously..." She shifted her weight and he got the distinct impression she was uncomfortable with this level of sharing, curious since he was usually the one ill at ease when it came to personal discussions, but he felt no awkwardness here.

"Fawkes did most of the work. I was alive, but weak. She put me in a coma for about three months and told only two people of my survival, then spent several additional months caring for me as there was little I could do on my own at first. I loathed it, feeling like a child, needing my _mummy_." He said the word with such bitterness, Hermione's brow furrowed. He could tell she was questioning everything she'd assumed about his relationship with his mother. "I didn't have a happy, healthy childhood, as I presume you did, Hermione. My feelings about my mother are therefore... _complicated._ After Lily... died... I did not speak to either of my parents for nearly ten years. It was not until my father's death that Mother and I reconnected." He cleared his throat, put his wine down, and stood, wiping his palms on his trousers. He tugged on one of his long sleeves, which half covered his hands, and turned his back to her. "Not that you need to know any of this."

( _So why I am telling her?_ He had no answer for that.)

"Severus?" he heard a rustling, then a thump, and knew she'd placed the book on the chair and stood.

"It's late," he said. "Nearly three. Perhaps we should finish this another time."

"Severus." She moved to him, planted herself right in front of him, and placed her hand on his bicep. She waited for him to look at her. "I'm glad to know Fawkes came. I'm glad to know he had a part in saving you, that _I_ had a part in saving you."

He kept his back straight and his face expressionless, unwilling to clue her into the fact that his skin was tingling under her touch. He wanted very badly to be touched. And she looked especially lovely in this light, not at all like the bushy-haired stick figure he remembered from Hogwarts. She was still slim, but there was a curve to her hips and she filled out her jumper and when she leaned over him, calling for Fawkes and crying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, he did not recall her lips being so perfectly shaped... He averted his gaze, glancing at the tent, hoping she would assume he wanted her to leave not because he was uncomfortable, but because he needed to get some sleep before Eileen awoke needing breakfast.

"Morning will come quickly, and some of us are unable to have a lie-in."

"Of course! We can continue this tomorrow after dinner, if that's alright?" She smiled at his nod. "Thank you. And thank you for sharing your mystery with me."

She leaned up to kiss his cheek and he froze.

Though his instinct was to pull away from the gentle touch, he couldn't stop himself from closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet mingling scents of her cherry blossom shampoo and flowery deodorant and breezy laundry detergent – all so decidedly _female_. She pressed those perfectly shaped lips to his skin for perhaps a second too long for it to be described as a peck, then backed away. He cleared his throat, which, this time, had nothing to do with the wound from the snake.

"Tomorrow," he repeated somewhat numbly.

"Very well." She reached for her wand, which was on the chair, and smiled again. "Goodnight!"

She disapparated before he could invite her to come _for_ dinner, rather than after.

He went into the bedroom to change into pajama bottoms and a soft t-shirt, returned to the sitting room, and waved his wand to change the couch into a bed before summoning over his blanket from its place inside the hope chest by the wall.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. He kept picturing her, smelling her, hearing the excitement in her voice as she translated those ancient runes... She truly was brilliant. He should have been a better teacher when she was young. She might have pursued a career in potions, or, at the very least, something more academic and intellectually stimulating than the place in which she currently found herself. He could have helped her rather than treating her with scorn. Back then, he'd acted as if her propensity for knowing everything was a negative trait she should curb rather than a talent she should cultivate. He felt guilty for this now.

He felt guilty for a lot of things in the past.

And, as he was wont to do, tonight instead of sleep he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, going through every single thing he had to be guilty for and wondering whether it would ever be possible to atone for his sins. As always, he came to the same conclusion: "Impossible, and not worth the effort, for to even try would be to reveal himself to their world, which would only be dangerous for the girl."

She had to remain his primary priority. He not only wanted to keep her alive, he wanted her to thrive. He did not want her to meet the same dismal end as Minerva McGonagall's "different" child had. And as much as he thought he might _enjoy_ a tryst with Miss Granger, were she to be interested, he couldn't let a woman distract him from what needed to be done... not even a brilliant, attractive one more capable to challenging him mentally than any of the beautiful but not altogether bright witches and Muggle women he'd had since recovering from the war and going on the run.

He knew the dangers of becoming _too_ interested in a woman. Sex, romance, and love, while frequently not mutually inclusive, all conspired to make men sloppy and stupid. If he hadn't gotten sloppy and stupid nearly seven years ago, he would've realized the girl's mother had steadily grown _less_ interested in him as an object best suited for her own pleasure and _more_ interested in him as a father for her secretly desired child.

"It's not as if you need to do anything about it," she'd said after telling him she was pregnant. "I don't need you. I can raise the child by myself. I'd _rather_ do it myself. Consider this baby mine and mine alone."

"You don't want _anything?"_ he'd asked, incredulous.

"What could you possibly give me that I don't already have?" She'd laughed - cackled, really - and the sound of it grated on his nerves. "I have more money than you've ever seen and I'll be a better parent than you could ever be. I don't even need your name. I'll either give the child mine or my husband's, depending upon how he... reacts."

He'd cocked an eyebrow at this and she'd laughed - no, cackled - again.

"Yes, dear, he knows about you."

Severus wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about the fact that she'd shared their affair with the person who should have been last to know. He wondered how many others she might have told.

"You've given me all I needed..." She placed a hand on her still-flat abdomen and smiled, a genuine smile of gratitude he rarely saw on her lips, for she was so infreuently thankful to anyone for anything, believing herself independent (save for her devotion to their shared master). "Though I wouldn't be adverse to continuing to fuck around, since it isn't as though I'm getting it anywhere else... and neither are you."

"Very well," he'd said, figuring he might as well keep fucking her - it wasn't as if he could get her more pregnant than she already was, after all - and resigning himself to the fact that she was approximately seven months away from bearing his unwanted (by him) progeny, an offspring he might never even see.

"Thank you," she'd said next, moving toward him, slipping her arms around his waist, bumping his pelvis with hers. "I appreciate this lovely gift you've given me, and I'll not let it go to waste." She'd closed her eyes, rested her forehead against his shoulder, and sighed contentedly, almost as if she cared for him.

He'd never before hated her more than he did in that moment.

And he didn't stop hating her. His hatred of her, which existed long before they'd fallen into bed, grew with each passing day.

Each passing month.

His hatred grew deeper and deeper as her belly grew with his child.

Though he did continue fucking her.

(Because she was correct. He wasn't getting it anywhere else.)

And now, where was she?

Dead.

And where was the child?

Asleep in a toddler bed in a tent, because she could only relax when confined to small spaces.

He cleared his throat, groaned, and turned onto his side, cursing under his breath.

Because as much as he hated his ex-lover, he'd grown to love the troubled child they'd created together.

He forced his eyes to close and tried to employ Occlumency, to clear his mind, as he'd done throughout both wars.

Nearly two hours after getting into bed, as he was finally starting to drift off, Eileen's screaming started.

Third night in a row.

-0-0-0-

Hermione crawled into bed exhausted, but happy. She closed her eyes, trying not to concentrate on the riddle of the runes (if she did that, she'd surely never fall asleep!) but she was too excited to let her mind wander far from the ruins, the statue, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, Severus Snape, and his mysterious little girl.

She couldn't believe Fawkes had come and that the phoenix's tears had worked. Even though she had no doubt Severus was underplaying his mother's role in his recovery, she was thrilled to know she'd played a significant part in his survival, as she'd long felt guilt over having watched helplessly as he died (or so she'd thought).

An hour after she'd gotten under the sheets, she was as wide awake and not at all tired as she'd been upon waking up the morning before. Thus, to try to relax, expel excess energy, and emotionally deescalate from the events of the evening and the preceding days, she decided to immerse herself in one of her favorite fantasies...

She'd had this one as one of her go-to scenarios ever since she started itching to escape her humdrum life, about a year ago, shortly before Ronald proposed. Things had stagnated with them in more ways than one, and she found herself mentally straying during their lovemaking sessions. Not that she would ever cheat on him (of course not!) and she felt guilty even imagining herself with other men (or, on occasion, women), but they'd been sleeping together for years and in all that time she'd had maybe half a dozen non-solo orgasms, all of which she'd basically brought herself to while trying to simultaneously force herself to enjoy whatever he was doing. And despite her requests to spice things up, he seemed content to continue alternating between the same three positions, with what she considered minimal foreplay, and too much bodily contact after. She knew it would hurt him if she were to confess it, but she did not enjoy the post-coital cuddling as he seemed to assume all women must. She always felt sticky and heavy and uncomfortable after sex and the last thing she wanted was his weight on top of her, his face buried into her shoulder, as he snored, or, just as annoying, the front of his body pressed against the back of hers, his flaccid member tickling her backside, with his arms wrapped so tightly around her she wondered whether he was afraid she'd melt away if she wriggled free from his grip.

Shortly before she decided to embark on this trip around Europe, she'd started going to the library with more frequency, but not to peruse the same old magical textbooks and academic tomes she'd been taking home since moving into a flat within walking distance of the UK's largest wizarding library outside Hogwarts as her boyfriend and mates thought. She was there to sneak her way through the section for magical romance and erotica. She'd even come across a rather fascinating series, the Medea's Calling books, about a wizard and a witch who meet at a medieval themed masquerade while wearing masks, slip off together to enjoy the best night of their lives (when measuring by physical pleasure alone) and then spend the rest of the first book trying to forget each other, the second trying to find each other, and the third trying to get to know each other as people. There was a fourth due out soon, entitled Medea's Calling - Enter: Another Lover that she hadn't even been able to get through an excerpt from without blushing. She could only imagine what Ron would think if he knew what she been reading at night after he'd fallen asleep!

She always pictured the masked man from the masquerade in the same way: Tall and angular, but with strong, slightly rounded shoulders, and midnight black hair, with a low, deep voice that whispered in her ear, and dark eyebrows that barely showed across a pale forehead and impossibly dark eyes, while most of his face was covered in a gold and purple mask. In her imagination, he never took the mask off, nor raised his voice loud enough for her to make out his identity, and he never revealed his name, though he frequently moaned hers.

As usual when going through this particular fantasy, she first pictured them meeting during a dance, like in the book, feeling a magnified charge as their chests brushed against each other, with her palm against his and his other hand on her waist.

Her fingers ghosted across her breast over her pajama top, her eyes closed as she envisioned him.

"I'm sorry, Ronald," she whispered. This, too, was part of her ritual. Even in her darkest, wildest, least plausible fantasies she couldn't quite separate herself from reality enough not to feel at least a twinge of guilt over cuckolding him... She supposed she should simply try to imagine herself single first, as she basically was at the moment, but there was something... naughtier... about having to apologize before committing such a sinful act with another.

"You're a terrible person, Hermione," she scolded aloud, but even as she did so her fingers against made their way over her chest, and down to her waist, then up her shirt. She toyed with the hardened bud on the nipple of her right breast... in her fantasy, the man had now led her away from the main room, into a dark balcony-like alcove, where they could still see the dancers below them but no one could see them for the shadows.

 _He was untying her corset... She was arching her back... His cock, constrained by his trousers, pressed against her hip as he reached back to undo the braid in her hair... She unbuttoned his shirt, ran her fingertips over the expanse of his chest, neither too hard nor too soft_ (here was where she deviated most from the scene in the book, as rock hard abs and thick chest hair did little for her) _... He thrust against her, pressing her back against the cold castle wall_ (why they were in a castle, she didn't know. Perhaps because of the medieval twist, though in the book it was a large gilded modern mansion that made her most uncomfortably picture a shinier Malfoy Manor) _..._

 _"I need you, Hermione," the masked man moaned into her ear. He breathed in the scent of her perfume. She breathed in the scent of his soap..._ (His soap, and some other scent... cedar, perhaps? This was new.) _She shifted her weight, with a twinge in her gut that continued down between her legs as she grew increasingly aroused, needing him too._

Her fingers left her breast and moved south, tickling her inner thigh, as she continued to be immersed in her imagination.

T _he masked man was lifting her long skirt, thrusting against her again, and kissing her neck, sucking on the skin just below her ear._ (She and Ron had never had sex standing up, though she'd requested it on more than one occasion. "It's better in bed," he always said, as if he knew the difference.) _The feeling of his breath hot on her skin gave her goose flesh, as her stomach fluttered and she felt a tight contraction between her legs. She was desperate for him. On account of the music and the laughter and chatter of those enjoying the party, she almost couldn't hear him growl into her ear as he again expressed his need for her._

Her fingers found their way under her pajama bottoms, so only her knickers separated them from her damp, aching sex. She tilted her hips as she saw, in her mind's eye, the masked man drop to his knees before her. _He slowly lowered her knickers_ (which, in her fantasy, were black and lacy and silk and not at all like the bright pink boy shorts she was actually wearing) _and flicked his talented tongue between her folds._

Hermione moaned as her fingers slipped under her knickers to do to her body as she wanted this mysterious masked man to. She added a second hand so she could massage her clit with two fingers while sliding two from the other hand inside her, working both at the same time. (Ronald had pleasured her orally only seven times ever in the four years since they'd started having sex. Not that she was counting - But she was definitely counting. He said he didn't enjoy it or see the point. It made his mouth "too tired," took "too long" to get her "there," and didn't "feel good enough" for him... but he didn't seem to see any hypocrisy in requesting she use her mouth to satiate him on the regular, as if doing so didn't make her jaw sore and leave her knees red from kneeling on the hard floor beside the bed. He didn't like for her to do it while leaning over him because her hair "tickled.")

Anyway, she ordered herself, back to this medieval themed party.

 _The masked man flicked his tongue over and over again over her swollen bud, while pumping his fingers in and out of her, making her so wet and heady and weak she could hardly stand. When her orgasm subsided_ (both in the fantasy and in real time) _there was no stopping, as was typically the case with Ron_ (who usually finished first and gave up shortly thereafter) _. She struggled to regain control of her breathing and her brain as her fingers, moving of their own accord, went to the masked man's trouser placard. She unbuttoned and unzipped it and helped his thick, erect cock to spring free, jutting out at her as if pulled toward her center by a magnet._

 _"You're beautiful," the masked man said as Hermione's hand worked up and down his hard cock. She ran her thumb over the pre-cum formed at the tip, eliciting a gasp and a groan from him. She brought her thumb up to her lips to taste it. "Beautiful," he repeated. Her skin tingled in response. She wanted to be beautiful._ (Not wholesome, not reasonably attractive, not even "well fit," as a random man at the Ministry called her last year, but beautiful.)

 _"I want you. Do you want me? Do you want me to fuck you?" He grabbed her thigh, wrapped her left leg around his waist, and was inside her before she could even beg "Yes, please..." His free hand went to the back of her hair, which he grabbed and pulled before bringing his teeth only slightly too roughly to the center of her throat, not quite biting down, but not quite_ not _biting down either._ (This, the hair pulling and biting, was also something in which Ronald had no interest. He was always sweet and gentle and predicable and dull.) _Below them, on the dance floor, couples swayed to the music, finding their own rhythms, as he bore relentlessly into her, making her cry out with the sheer pleasure of it._

Hermione was working her way toward a second orgasm (a rare occurrence, though it had happened more regularly since leaving London and Ron in May) when the voice of the masked man in her ear changed ever so slightly.

 _He was still speaking in a low tone, but he was not whispering._

 _"Miss Granger," he said, while pulling off his mask. He tossed it to the floor, still moving inside her, fucking and filling her, making her pussy pulsate around his cock while she gasped with each thrust. She tore her eyes from the mask on the floor to his face. For the first time she recognized his eyes, his impossibly dark eyes... as he continued to speak. "Tell me more about this clandestine love affair._

"Auggh!" Hermione sat bolt upright, the fantasy dissipated, and interlocked her trembling fingers. That low-timbre voice... that cedar smell... those impossibly dark eyes... they all belonged to none other than her former potions professor.

"No," she whispered into the darkness, feeling as sticky with sweat and heavy and uncomfortable as she typically felt after sex with Ron. She shook her head. Her bushy hair was stuck to the back of her neck, her hard nipples were brushing almost painfully against her pajama top, and her sex was still screaming for release. This was not alright.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

It wasn't him.

She couldn't have been fantasizing about him.

Not this whole time.

Not this whole year.

No.

What a ridiculous notion. She'd thought him dead, after all.

He'd come to mind tonight only because she's just seen him that evening.

Only because she'd been so excited over their little mystery.

Only because she'd indulged in this silly fantasy to avoid thinking about him in the first place.

Her self-conscious was clearly playing a cruel joke on her, making his voice and face take the place of the nonexistent masked man she'd been making love to in her mind since she ready the first Medea's Calling after telling Ronald she couldn't marry him, not yet.

The mind is a terrible trickster, especially when one is overtired, she decided.

But she got out of bed, headed for the shower, and did not let her imagination stray back to that medieval themed masquerade ball again.

By the time she finally got back into bed and fell asleep, the sun was already rising.


	6. Which Way to Go From Here

**CHAPTER SIX**

 **Which Way To Go From Here**

 **"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"**

 **"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.**

 **"I don't much care where—" said Alice.**

 **"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.**

 **"—so long as I get SOMEWHERE," Alice added as an explanation.**

 **"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."**

 **-Lewis Carroll**

After her long, lukewarm shower, Hermione returned to bed with the express intention of counting pygmy puffs until she fell asleep. She was determined to never, ever again associate her former potions professor with great sex (or any sex, for that matter) for the rest of her life.

But as soon as she hit that deep dream-worthy sleep cycle, her mind circled back to the party. She met the man. They danced. He took her to the alcove. She kissed him. He touched her. They were shagging. Her sex was throbbing. His hips were thrusting. She cried out with pleasure. He removed his mask. She looked into his eyes. He said her name.

She answered, "Professor?"

"Yes, Hermione," he confirmed.

And he kept going.

And she didn't want him to stop.

She woke up out of breath and drenched in sweat, the ache between her legs returned.

"It's your mind playing tricks on you again," she scolded. Clearly brought on by a combination of the surprise of finding him alive, the excitement of this mystery, and the stress of not having had sex in such a long time. But, being a practical person, she decided to accept that her body was crying out for a certain sort of attention, and as long as she continued to deny it matters could only get worse... thus, with her eyes closed, trying not to feel guilty or full of self-loathing for doing so, she again returned to the fantasy in her mind – this time accepting the former potions master as her masked man – and let her fingers slip deftly into her knickers as she resigned herself to enjoying it.

-0-0-0-

They went out for breakfast again.

He was too tired to eat much, but Eileen had an appetite, and when they returned home she settled in one of her favorite places, the rocking chair, to stare out the window while humming to herself and flicking her fingers.

He fell back onto the couch, which was still pulled into a bed, and wondered if it would be an example of irresponsible parenting to fall asleep now. He decided yes, it would be, and so after about half an hour of fighting with his eyelids to stay open, he summoned over a quill, ink, and parchment, and began penning a letter to Minerva. He hadn't written a reply to her in months, but given the increasing frequency and intensity of Eileen's nighttime fits, he was seeking advice and, though she probably couldn't give it, reassurance.

 _Minerva,_

 _I apologize for my silence over the last several months. I received all three of your letters but was at a loss regarding how to respond. Is she doing better? Depends upon the day. No, the moment. She is eating again – she grew so thin after my mother's death, I had to take her to a Healer here in Rome over the summer – and she is talking more all the time, but her night terrors have been increasing. We're up to at least one per night, sometimes two, at least five nights a week, sometimes seven. She is convulsing more regularly and some of the things she says as she does so are cause for additional alarm. She also cries and says she has been dreaming about her mother. Twice now she has asked if her mother will return ("Mumma come home?") as she does not seem to comprehend the concept of death despite my explanations._

 _I have done considerable research into the development and destruction of Obscurus in children, as you are well aware; I truly believe I can keep her from becoming an Obscurial. We are studying magic on a near-daily basis and she loves it. She has embraced potions and History of Magic in particular, though her love of being outside at night often has her asking for practical astronomy lessons simply so she can sit and look to the stars. She is a bright child, despite her deficits, with a genuine thirst for knowledge, but I have made the decision to steer clear of any mention of dark magic in any of her lessons._

 _That said, two weeks ago yesterday we were out at night when we came across a cat. The cat seemed friendly enough, thus I let her pet and play with it. All was well until I realized the cat was starting to exhibit un-feline-like behaviors. I suspected Eileen was – without realizing it – performing the Imperius Curse on the cat. She made it stand on its hind legs and hop, which she found delightfully entertaining, and she made it press its nose to hers in a "kiss" before hovering it in the air so she could tickle its belly. I was torn between stopping her and objectively observing. She did not harm the cat, but when it became clear it was in distress, I was able to end the spell with "Finite Incantatem." The cat ran away and Eileen cried. For over twenty-four hours she gave me the silent treatment, and I did not need Legilimency to know that she was furious with me for costing her her furry friend._

 _I need your guidance, Minerva._

 _How can I teach her to control her involuntary magic without teaching her to suppress it? And if it is voluntary, how do I make her understand that certain branches of magic are highly controlled and therefore not to be performed, especially not by children?_

 _And how can I answer the questions she must surely have about her mother without revealing – or letting her sense – how much I abhorred the woman? How did you speak to your son about his absent father? I realize, of course, that your situation was vastly different, but did the boy ever ask about him? (My apologies if this question is too personal.)_

 _I hope the school year is off to a decent start. Give my regards to Augusta. I haven't seen her sister recently, as April has been traveling, but she is expected back any day and will likely insist upon inviting herself for tea._

 _With gratitude,_

 _S. Prince_

He almost added that he'd seen Miss Granger, as he was curious about her life and work and what Minerva must think of the fact that the girl left her job and "true love" (according to the Prophet) to travel the continent for a year, but he was afraid to make it seem that he had any vested interest in her... or worse, that he was experiencing some sort of inappropriate attraction to her.

He wondered what April Thames Gold, younger sister of Augusta Longbottom, would think of Miss Hermione Granger. The elderly woman had been close friends with his mother and had long joined Eileen's Yia Yia in insisting that he meet a woman and "settle down," though he made it clear to both he had no desire to do so.

Severus rolled the parchment and sealed it with wax, to be sent later. Eileen was still humming, rocking, and watching her flicking fingers, so he reclined again on the couch, lost in thought.

When he'd emerged from his post-Battle coma, he learned that his mother had decided to inform three people of his miraculous recovery: April Thames Gold, Lucius Malfoy, and Minerva McGonagall. At the time, he was upset with her over it. He felt he would've been quite a bit happier if _no one_ knew he'd survived, but if he hadn't reconnected with the Malfoys, he wouldn't have ended up taking into custody his bastard child, and if he hadn't reconnected with Minerva, no one would have recognized what Eileen's obvious but rare differences could truly mean, plus if he hadn't had the financial backing of April, he would not have been able to afford the years of travel before his potions business found its footing, thus he was eventually grateful for his mother's interference.

He glanced at Eileen wondering if he should have described to Minerva the girl's most recent night terror, whether he should have gone into specifics about how she'd screamed and cried and convulsed, how harsh her voice had become, how her eyes had rolled back into her head. He didn't know why it was getting worse. He never encouraged her to try to suppress her magic or hide who she was – they simply hid away from almost everyone, so he wouldn't have to do any awkward explaining or memory charms.

Eileen continued to rock back and forth in the chair, still humming tunelessly, completely engrossed in the movement of her fingers, through which sunlight was streaming. Her silver hair shone but looked tangled, reminding him he needed to give her a bath today. She generally hated the water thus he only forced her into it twice a week, using cleaning spells for any messes or dirt on the days in between.

Once he forced himself to stand and stretch, he tucked the rolled letter away inside his pocket. They would have to apparate to the closest owl post office later, which was all the way in Pompeii, as he did not have an owl of his own. Perhaps they'd go shortly before dinner time and get something to eat there, returning in time for Miss Granger's arrival. Or perhaps they should go now, and ask Miss Granger to dine with them in the evening.

Miss Granger.

Hermione.

Fuck.

He was conflicted as far as she was concerned.

He had no idea what he wanted from her.

Temporary companionship? A little conversation? Intellectual stimulation?

Other sorts of stimulation?

He couldn't deny that she'd grown up to be an attractive woman, but what drew him to her was not her body or visage, but her incredibly developed mind. He enjoyed watching her work through those runes and the mystery, taking the pieces apart and puzzling them back together. Reading her using Legilimency was difficult as her thoughts were scattered and overlapping, with multiple threads being woven at the same time. His mind reminded her a little of Eileen's mother's in that way, except where Hermione was clear and bright, Eileen's mother's mind was dark and chaotic and loud. His own mind was neatly organized, compulsively so, thus it was easy for him to master Occlumency all those years ago. He simply had to shut away his emotions in a locked cupboard in the back of a sparse room, and then, whenever necessary, allow a vision or memory to play like a Muggle movie for whichever Master happened to be perusing.

Once, during a Death Eater gathering, he'd overheard the Dark Lord asking Eileen's mother how she could sleep with so much noise in her head. She'd smiled seductively at him while running her palm up his arm, and replied, "You know perfectly well how I sleep, my Lord."

And Severus, despite harboring no feelings of love, or even affection, for her, had felt jealous.

There weren't many female Death Eaters, but those there were, with the exception of Alecto Carrow, all seemed to regard the Dark Lord as sort of the ideal man, presuming him to be the ideal lover, as each and every one of them wouldn't have minded seeing themselves as his Queen. He rarely paid them any mind, however, and Severus assumed he had no physical interest in any of them (he'd even wondered whether the man, when he had truly been a man, had ever had physical 'interest' with any woman at all).

But when she said "You know perfectly well how I sleep," the mentally developed room Severus kept sparse thanks to Occlumency filled most confusingly with a mix of envy and fury. He'd laid claim to her, after all, and considered her _his_ , even if there was nothing romantic in their relationship, and even though she was technically married.

Severus was, he realized in that moment, a possessive man.

It was a trait Eileen had inherited.

(Though he chose to attribute it to her mother.)

And so he would have to be careful with Miss Granger. Whether they developed a friendship or whether he managed to fuck her (ideally, both), he was certain she was not the sort of woman to consent to being possessed.

"Calm yourself, you bloody letch," he muttered, waving his wand to turn the couch back into a bed. "She's half your age. She was your student. If you had any brains at all you'd Obliviate the chit and leave Rome forever."

"Baba?"

Severus jolted. He hadn't realized she'd stopped focusing on her fingers and was paying attention to him instead. She'd made her way silently to his side and was staring up at him, wide-eyed.

"Yes, Eileen?"

"Mumma."

"What about her?"

"Mumma dream."

"You had another dream about your mother?"

Eileen did not respond, but her eyes met his and he knew the answer was yes.

"When you were crying last night, you'd had a dream about your mother?"

"Mumma."

"Eileen." He lifted her and carried her to the rocker, where he settled her down with her shins against his thighs, facing each other. "My darling girl, were you dreaming about your mother?"

She placed her palms on either of his cheeks and stared intently into his eyes. He wondered if she was attempting Legilimency on him, as he suddenly got the unpleasant sensation he was having his mind invaded. Just to be safe, he immediately began to employ Occlumency.

He tried asking the question twice more, but she did not respond.

"Let's work on your magic today," he said finally, giving up.

She brightened.

"Magic?"

"Yes. Would you like to help me make a potion, or would you rather work on charms?"

Though wizarding parents were not supposed to start teaching their children magic before they were old enough to attend school, he had started her off early, as soon a she learned she was not in the book for Hogwarts, in fact. He was not so foolish as to give the girl a wand at six years old, but he did work with her on mental magic, brewing, astronomy, controlling her emotions, and even reading tea leaves, though he thought Divination was largely a waste of time, as it was entirely about guesswork and assumptions unless performed by truly gifted – and rare – Seers, as Trelawney's great-great-grandmother had been. He also read to the girl from each of the first year textbooks he'd saved from his own Hogwarts days, so that she'd have a fundamental understand of charms, transfiguration, and history of magic. He skipped both the dark arts and defense against them, however.

"Potion?" she requested. "Make a Pepper Up?" Eileen loved Pepper Up Potion. While Severus did not allow her to try it, someone needed to be taste-tester, and she delighted in watching the smoke come out of his ears after downing a dosage. This was one of his most popular sellers through his mail-order business thus he never felt it was a waste of time to make it.

"You'll do most of the work and I shall supervise," he said, setting her on the floor. "I believe you're ready."

"Pepper UP, Pepper UP, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper UP!" she sang, flittering off into the kitchen. With a long, drawn out sigh (for he was still exhausted) Severus rose and followed.

-0-0-0-

Hermione sat at her kitchen table, nibbling yesterday's leftover biscotti dunked in tea that had nearly gone cold, as she worked on the rhyming riddle of the runes. She wondered what would be a good time to return to Severus' home while also worrying she was going to quickly overstay her welcome, as he hadn't seemed like the sort to welcome a regular intrusion into his life, though he also hadn't made it seem as though he was averse to her continued presence.

She then thought about the sparseness of his refrigerator and how very thin both he and Eileen seemed to be. Not that he looked emaciated. He'd always been slender, and his broad but rounded shoulders were exactly as she remembered from before the war, but he'd definitely lost a bit of weight since then, and the girl had a cute little belly but very thin arms and legs, which Hermione knew could be a sign of malnutrition (though her parents were dentists, they also considered themselves 'amateur nutritionists' and kept a lot of Muggle literature about healthy eating around their home).

Perhaps, instead of arriving after dinner, she should go to his home before. They could go to dinner together... or, even better, she could bring ingredients and cook for him. For them. She wondered what they liked to eat. She had done a ton of cooking while living in London – Ron, Harry, and Ginny were over several nights a week for dinner, as it had become a hobby and a great way to unwind after work – but precious little since setting off on sabbatical.

Yes, that's precisely what she would do.

She would make them a delicious, home-cooked dinner, nothing Italian, as she wanted to deviate from what she assumed was their current norm.

She could go Greek. One of the reasons she'd wanted to visit Greece was for the food and she felt she had eaten her way through the entire country. Chicken souvlaki, moussaka, spanikopita, kolokithokeftedes, gyros, loukoumades, tiropita, kourabiedes...

Her mouth was watering just thinking about it.

Or she could go with Indian cuisine, maybe a tandoori chicken or butter chicken, something with spice and kick and curry, with creative sides... she hadn't had beef vindaloo in over a year... or lamb kababs... thinking about it made her want to switch her travel schedule around, maybe spend less time in Egypt than planned to add a couple of weeks in India.

Her stomach rumbled.

Of course, given that Severus had been out of the UK for even longer than she had, perhaps he would enjoy something quintessentially home, like shepherd's pie (if she could find and afford good lamb), or fish and chips (the one thing her own mother cooked well), or bangers and mash (the first dish she mastered). A sticky toffee pudding, too, if she could get all she needed for it.

Yes, she decided. It might not be the most interesting choice, but she was going to go with something traditional. For fish and chips she'd need peanut oil, flour, salt, baking soda... she began rummaging around in her rented temporary kitchen, using her wand to summon over a bag. She hadn't bought much to keep there since she never stayed in one place more than a month (though she'd recently decided to stay in Rome for three, until the end of the year) but she had many of the basics, brought with her from home. She would need vinegar, peas, haddock or cod, maybe skate (since she knew Eileen liked it), and potatoes.

She hoped he wouldn't think her too forward for presuming he and his daughter would enjoy a home cooked meal and she also hoped she wouldn't seem overly domestic by stepping into his kitchen, as she wanted him to view her as an academic. While she enjoyed cooking at home, she resented that once she started doing it, Ron started to expect it, and would often show up unannounced asking "What's for dinner?" but never actually troubled himself to make a meal.

"You're getting as good as Mum!" he told her once, grinning his approval between bites of blood pudding one morning, and while she knew it was meant to be complimentary, this churned her stomach.

Six days later she was in the office of a Mediwitch, sitting on the edge of an examination table, twiddling her fingers and chewing her lip, when the woman finally entered and said the words Hermione was dying to hear: "No, you're not pregnant. I believe the cause of your missed cycle is stress-related."

They'd never had a pregnancy scare before, not once in the three-and-a-half years they'd been sleeping together (which started about a year after the war ended, right after she finished her last year at Hogwarts) and she'd been terrified. She hadn't even told Ron she was going to see the Mediwitch, for fear he would be upset – or worse, _excited_ – over the idea of parenthood.

A few months later, on New Year's Eve, he asked her to marry him. And she said no. And he was devastated. She felt terrible and therefore quickly amended her answer to "Not now," explaining that she wasn't ready, that she wanted to be more established in her career before thinking of marriage, especially as she knew he would want children right away.

He tried to seem as though he understood and wasn't hurt but their relationship took a hit as a result. Just over three months after that, she set off on her year abroad, knowing full well that he expected her to consent to marriage upon her return despite their agreed-upon "break."

Though she missed him, and loved him, she couldn't help kind of hoping he'd find and fall for someone else in the interim.

She tucked away the parchment on which she'd written down the riddle the night before and set the bag of ingredients on the center of the kitchen table. She hurried out the door. It was already getting late.

-0-0-0-

Neither Severus nor Eileen were terribly hungry, so they had only a snack in Pompeii after sending his letter and returned to the apartment to wait for Hermione. Perhaps she would want to go out with them to a late dinner. Or perhaps she wouldn't. He didn't care. He didn't care at all one way or the other what she wanted to do. He didn't care about her at all.

So why had she been wafting through his mind all afternoon?

When he pictured her, he saw her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, staring intently at the runes before them, with her soft lips wrapped around his quill, thinking hard. He was impressed by how quickly her mind worked... and though he'd had his share of attractive, attentive women since becoming Severus Prince, he found nothing to be more of a turn-on than a woman of intelligence.

It was, admittedly, one thing he liked about Eileen's mother. She was a twisted, sadistic bitch, confident to the point of arrogance, snarky, aggressive, and, at times, immature, but she was also undeniably brilliant. She loved to argue with him, to infuriate him for fun, and just when he thought he might snap and hit her (not that he would ever hit a woman), she would grab him by the front of his coat and kiss him and they'd end up in bed having some of the best sex of his life.

He wondered if he could get Hermione to argue with him.

He wondered if she was the sort to refuse to admit defeat when she knew herself to be right or whether she'd back down when challenged simply because he was older and therefore commanded respect. He had a feeling the former would be the case (she was, after all, a headstrong Gryffindor) but he wanted to test this hypothesis.

And he wanted them to end up in bed.

"I loathe you," he said, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. And it was the truth. He loathed himself for countless reasons, including the fact that he was in here combing his hair and applying a dab of cologne and hoping she wouldn't find him as ugly as he'd spent the first forty years of his life being told he was. He hadn't had much luck with women during his time at Hogwarts, neither as a student nor as a professor, but since being on the run he'd found that women, especially Muggle women, seemed to find him mysterious and brooding with, as one such woman said, "A voice that could induce orgasm even without being helped along by a single touch." He hadn't become a Casanova by any means, but in four years he'd more than doubled his number of partners, and not a one of them was interested in him with the hopes it would help them rise in the ranks among the Dark Lord's marked Death Eaters.

"Baba!" called Eileen from the sitting room. "Baba, come!"

"Coming, Eileen!" With one last loathsome sneer at his reflection, he left the loo. He found the girl standing in the center of the couch, fists on her hips like a sassy superhero.

"Baba, monster!" she demanded.

(Monster was one of Eileen's favorite games.)

"Monster?" he asked innocently, as if he had no idea what she wanted, though his hand slowly went to his wand. "What about monsters? You want to read a book about a monster?"

"No, Baba! Baba, monster! Baba, monster, Eileen!"

"You want to _be_ a monster?" he raised his wand and pointed it at her. She shook her head and pointed back at him, making a whiny noise. He cleared his throat. "You'll need to use more words, Eileen. Or I'll think you want to _be_ a monster."

"No!" she shouted. _"Baba,_ monster. Baba, monster, chase Eileen!" She raised her hands like bear claws and tried to make a mean face. "Grrr!"

"Oh, you want _me_ to be a _monster_ and chase _you?"_

She nodded.

He tapped his temple with the wand. His face went green, his features distorted. He opened his mouth to reveal vampire-style fangs and growled back at her.

"You'd better run!"

-0-0-0-

Hermione, carrying her heavy grocery bag, arrived in the alleyway near Severus' apartment shortly before five, hoping they wouldn't have eaten yet. She was about to knock on the door when she heard Eileen, screaming, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. Her insides went cold. Were they being attacked? Instinctively, she tapped her wand to the doorknob and said, "Alohomora!" Thankfully, the apartment either wasn't warded or she was able to penetrate his defenses, because the door opened to her. She rushed inside, dropping the bag in the hall and kicking the door closed behind her, and hurried, wand out, toward the sound of the screaming.

When she entered the sitting room, her first reaction was fear. There was a green-faced monster stomping boorishly around the room, chasing a shrieking Eileen, making a terrifying face and growling. She raised her wand higher and was about to shout "Stupify!" when she realized the monster was wearing Severus' clothes... and that Eileen was giggling between screams, as he almost caught her, missed, and threw a pillow when she got away.

"You cannot escape Baba Monster!" he said in a deep, grumbly voice. Eileen threw the pillow back at him and he made a show of nearly being knocked over when hit made contact with his chest.

Hermione's mouth dropped open, her wand hand lowered, and she stared, dumbfounded, as the man she'd known as a cold, calculating, borderline cruel enigma during her time at Hogwarts, leapt from the chair to the couch to the floor after a delighted six-year-old... playing.

"I'm going to get you!" he growled, again reaching for Eileen and narrowly missing as she darted into her pink and purple tent. He laughed. "You can't hide from me! I... I..." Severus had spotted Hermione. He froze mid-stomp as if she _had_ cried "Stupify."

"Hello, Severus," Hermione said cheerfully, though she felt awkward. "I hope you haven't eaten. I brought everything we need to make fish and chips."

She took her time going back down the hall to fetch the bag, figuring he might need a minute to process the fact that she'd bared witness to his uncharacteristic silliness.

When she returned he looked like himself again and was holding Eileen on his hip like a toddler. She was out of breath, grinning, but his expression was one of complete seriousness.

"I'm sorry for letting myself in. I heard screams and thought someone might be in trouble. And I was right!" She smiled at Eileen. "You were being chased by a _monster_! I'm so very happy you managed to get away."

"No monster!" said Eileen. She giggled. "Baba a monster!"

"What? That was your baba?" Hermione asked in an exaggerated tone. "I don't believe it!"

Eileen laughed harder at this. She wriggled until Severus put her down and rushed over to Hermione to look in the grocery bag. "Paper bird?"

"I didn't bring a paper bird, but perhaps I could make you one after dinner? Would you like that?"

"Paper bird!" shouted Eileen. She hopped on her toes, twisting her hands up by her ears, and let out a high pitched whinny.

"Time to calm down," said Severus. He moved forward to place a hand on the back of Eileen's head. "Playtime is all done. Please look at a book in your bed while I speak with Miss Granger." Eileen, clearly knowing from his tone that he was not to be defied, grabbed a picture book off the lowest shelf then crawled back into her tent.

Hermione's heart plummeted from her chest to her stomach. Was he angry? Jumping Jupiter, she hoped not. She hadn't meant to intrude! Had she been presumptuous in bringing the food, assuming he would let her cook for them?

Without a word, he led her into the kitchen as if leading her to an executioner.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," she began upon entering the room, suddenly on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean anything by... by anything. I didn't mean to cause you trouble or embarrass you, and if you don't want fish and chips, or if you already ate, I can Vanish it all, and if you want me to leave..."

"I do not want you to leave," he cut her off. "I... I was not prepared to be seen... that way." He ducked his head slightly, avoiding eye contact, and she knew for sure that she had, indeed, embarrassed him, though he wouldn't admit it. "That is all."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Feeling emboldened, she set the bag on the counter and added, "But there's nothing to be ashamed of. I _liked_ seeing you that way."

"Why?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Am I better looking with green skin, hideous features, and fangs?"

"No! You're _much_ better looking like this, save for one thing."

"What's that?"

"When you chased her into the tent, you laughed. And you smiled. I've never seen you smile like that... sir. It was... nice. You should smile more."

The corner of his lip twitched and she wondered if he was intentionally hiding a smile at this. He reached into the bag and began removing items.

"So... you're planning for us to cook our own dinner? I must warn you, I am a competent potions master but a dismal chef."

She felt an immense sense of relief wash over her - he wasn't going to tell her off or demand she leave - and joined him in emptying the shopping bag.

"Well, then, Severus Snape, I suppose it's lucky for you that I'm good at everything I set my mind to, and that includes cooking." She set the fish on the counter beside the stove.

"Everything, Hermione?" he asked, sounding like himself again. "You're good at _everything_ you set your mind to?"

"That's right," she answered cockily, though she could feel the start of a full-body blush as his gaze swept over her. "Absolutely everything."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Sorry this chapter is so late! It was like playing "beat the clock" to get it out while it's still Monday (at least here on NYC time). I hugely struggled with this chapter and rewrote it several times, which means it may not be as polished as I like, and it's longer than usual but I ended up okay with it. Hope you enjoyed!

The next chapter, which I like more than this one, opens after they've eaten dinner, so we won't see them cooking together, but if you're looking for a steamy kitchen fic, Fragile Reality's Masterchef (Hermione/Lucius) is my favorite thing I'm reading right now. (I'm also obsessed with the show MasterChef Jr., so cooking is on my brain.)

Thanks as always for reading, and for your follows, faves, and reviews! I love getting the notifications in my email and appreciate any and all feedback! Next chapter will be posted at the usual time on Thursday. Thx!

 **-AL**


	7. Friend of the Devil

**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

 **Friend of the Devil**

 _ **I set out running but I'll take my time**_  
 _ **A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine**_  
 _ **If I get home before daylight**_  
 _ **I just might get some sleep tonight**_

 **-Grateful Dead**

The fish and chips and mushy peas turned out perfectly – Severus asked for seconds of everything and Eileen ate most of her fish, all of her chips, and half of her peas – much to Hermione's relief, as she worried she might be out of practice in the kitchen.

Afterward, Severus insisted upon starting the dishes (technically, he charmed them to wash themselves) while Eileen 'helped' Hermione serve the sticky toffee pudding, then they all sat down again for dessert.

"Well done, Hermione," said Severus as he cut into his. "You are indeed a woman of many talents."

Her cheeks went pink.

"Thank you, Severus. I learned to cook after I left Hogwarts. I needed a hobby and, for the first time in my life, reading wasn't enough."

"I vaguely recall what it was like to have a hobby." He glanced at Eileen, who was making a mess of her sticky toffee pudding by eating it with her hands. "At Hogwarts, I enjoyed wizard's chess, gobstones, and dueling club."

"Not Quidditch?"

"I hate Quidditch."

This came as quite the surprise to Hermione.

"You _hate_ Quidditch? But you were at every match when I was a student."

"As a Head of House, it was required. I did not mind so much when Slytherin played, as I liked to watch my team win - more specifically, I like to lord our wins over Minerva, as she was rather sensitive about losing, but in general, I was never a fan. I did not play at a student, nor did I attend most matches. I looked forward to them, though, as I liked being able to have the library or common room to myself for a few quiet hours."

"I never much liked it either," she confessed. "I couldn't follow it for the longest time, and never really saw the appeal, but I enjoyed cheering on my friends."

"And your boyfriend."

Her cheeks blushed redder than they had at his earlier compliment. "Ron wasn't my boyfriend when we were in school."

"I was referring to Viktor Krum," said Severus, staring down at his dessert, which was nearly gone. "Were you not the young lady who made headlines by attending the Yule Ball with the famous Seeker during your fourth year?"

"You remember that? Goodness. Well, I've only seen him play once, actually, in the World Cup before we'd met. Did you... attend the World Cup?"

"I did not." He handed Eileen a napkin, accompanied by a pointed look. She swiped quickly at her mouth but continued to eat with her sticky hands. "I could not afford tickets on my salary. Teaching is not the most lucrative career."

"Money isn't everything." Hermione stabbed her own pudding most aggressively with the prongs of her fork. "I would rather be fulfilled in other ways than monetarily."

"Fulfilled?" He cocked an eyebrow and for some inexplicable reason, she suddenly felt as though she'd suggested something dirty. "How so?"

"I could be a professor! Molding young minds, encouraging a love of learning. Do you think?"

"I think you would quickly succumb to the tedium. For every student you'll have who is... who is as you were, you'll have a dozen Ronald Weasleys and Neville Longbottoms and Draco Malfoys."

"I thought you were rather fond of Draco?"

"I am. I was. But he thought good grades should be given him regardless of whether he earned them, on account of his father's pull and power within the school. On more than one occasion he came to me demanding I have one of my colleagues change his marks on this assignment or that, as he felt undeservedly low-balled. Weasley was equally lazy – do not think for a moment that it escaped my notice when you helped him with his homework – and Longbottom had potential that was wasted by his bumbling demeanor and fear of his own shadow."

"Neville isn't like that anymore."

"Is Weasley?"

Now Hermione was the one avoiding eye contact. The truth was, until Ron recently left the Ministry Auror's office to work in his brother's shop, he had frequently counted on her to do what should have been his job: filing paperwork, doing research, following up... the boring parts, basically. And she did them, not only to help her boyfriend, but to help the department and, by extension, the wizarding world. She therefore couldn't deny he was as lazy in that regard as he'd been at Hogwarts.

After dessert, Severus again insisted upon cleanup duty, so Hermione went into the sitting room with Eileen.

"Sticky," said the girl, holding out her hands.

"Let's go wash them," said Hermione.

"No!" Eileen quickly made fists and hid them behind her back. "No wash a hands!"

"Eileen is afraid of water!" Severus called from the kitchen. "Use a cleaning spell."

"Alright!" Hermione replied, though she found that odd. As a rational man, one would think he would discourage his child from having an irrational fear rather than making concessions for her. But when Eileen again held out her hands, Hermione tapped each palm with her wand and uttered the cleaning spell.

"Paper bird?" asked Eileen. "Name Birda."

"You want to name your paper bird Birda?"

"Birda. Paper bird, Eileen."

"Very well." Using her own variation of the Avis spell, Hermione conjured up a lovely paper bird for the girl. She made a loop with the tip of her wand and the bird took flight, hovering like a hummingbird just above their heads. Eileen gasped, clasping her hands under her chin. Hermione waved her wand again and the bird began to soar like an eagle, all around the perimeters of the room. Eileen chased after it, calling "Birda! Here, Birda!" until it landed on her outstretched index finger. She gazed at it lovingly.

"Thank you."

Hermione startled slightly when she felt Severus's breath against her cheek, his voice in her ear. He was so close he could easily wrap his arms around her waist from behind... not that she wanted him to... and this realization elicited a fluttering sensation that stretched from her chest down into her stomach.

"She's been asking for a paper bird," he went on, his voice low. "I thought she wanted me to take up Origami."

"I'd tried bribing her with one the other morning when she had my wand," Hermione explained, hoping he couldn't tell that her breathing had quickened, the result of his continued close proximity.

"Ah."

"Birda, Baba!" called Eileen, rushing over to show him how she'd gently cradled it in her hands. She knew to be gentle, or she might lose it as she had the kitty. "Birda mine?"

"Yes, she's yours."

Eileen glared at him as if highly affronted. "Birda _boy_ bird."

"My apologies," said Severus, though Hermione hid a smile at his eye-roll. " _He's_ yours."

Eileen played with the bird for another hour, stroking its paper head, watching it fly, letting it perch on her finger, and trying to teach it to tweet (Hermione felt slightly guilty, as she knew such a thing would never be possible, not with the spell she'd used). While the child was entertained, Severus and Hermione sat on opposite ends of the couch and chatted. She was eager to delve back into the riddle of the runes, but Severus thought it would be better to wait until Eileen was asleep.

"What would you most like to do?" he asked between sips of the tea they'd just brewed. "If you could have any job?"

"I don't want a job, frankly."

"I see. You intend, then, to marry rich? I've known a few women with similar dreams but with the exception of trophy wife Narcissa Black, it hasn't turned out well for them."

Hermione's lip curled with disgust. "I don't want to be a trophy wife! And I certainly don't wish to be like Narcissa Bl- Malfoy. I might not ever want to get married at all! I want to see the world, to spend my life traveling, to be a perpetual student in the school of life... though I wouldn't mind returning as an actual student to an actual school, either. There _are_ magical universities, you know."

"A few, all highly competitive, none in Europe."

"I could apply to the Salem Witches Institute in America or the Institution of Higher Magical Learning just outside Dubai. And WWU accepts witches now! You know, the Worldwide Wizarding University? In Japan. There are a few others, smaller ones..."

"We used to have a university in Europe, located in Northern France, I believe, but the wards were broken and the campus taken over during the Muggle war in the 1940s, and it was never rebuilt, in part because most of the wizarding community believed that three schools of magic were sufficient for young students and apprenticeships or learning on the job were the way to go post-seventh year."

"I don't think I agree. I have been learning my job on the job for four years now, and during my final year at Hogwarts, after the war, Professor Flitwick took me on as sort of an apprentice, so I could study more advanced charms work, but it isn't enough. There's still so very much I don't know! Every bloody time I learn something new, I feel both elated over having expanded my knowledge or worldview and depressed because it's a reminder of how much I didn't know before I learned it. And my Muggle education fell completely by the wayside while I was at Hogwarts. I know about that war in the 1940s because my mother's father fought in it, but beyond what I was taught by my parents and what I learned in my years of primary school before I got my Hogwarts invitation from Professor McGonagall, I am lost!"

Severus opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Eileen's horrified scream.

"What happened?" He leapt up, sloshing tea down his front. She was behind the armchair. She crawled out and held up her bird, whose paper wing was torn.

"Birda!" she wailed. "Dead Birda!"

"He's not dead," said Severus.

"Dead!" cried Eileen dramatically. She fell back against the floor, one arm draped across her eyes, as Severus examined the ripped wing.

"Give it here," said Hermione authoritatively. "Eileen Prince, you stop crying this instant. Birda needs you to be strong for him! As it happens, I am an extremely accomplished Paper Bird Healer. I can save him. But I'll need your assistance and I cannot have an assistant in tears."

"Save Birda?" Eileen sat up, wiped her eyes, and regarded Hermione carefully.

"Yes. Come sit by me. We shall do it together."

Severus gently placed the not-moving paper bird in Eileen's careful hands and watched as she handed it over to Hermione has if passing along priceless china. The girl crawled up to sit beside the witch on the couch and watched carefully as Hermione closely examined the broken wing.

"Just as I thought." Hermione shook her head. "This is a Fun Fracture. Don't let the name fool you. There's nothing _fun_ about a Fun Fracture, but it happens to paper birds when they've been having _too much fun_. After we fix it, we'll make him a little cage so he can rest when he needs to. Now, you're going to hold him and I'll say the spell to mend his wing, then I'll need to reanimate him – I mean, I'll need to revive him. In the morning, he'll be good as new!"

"Revive," confirmed Eileen, though Severus was reasonably sure she didn't know what the word meant.

Hermione handed Birda back to Eileen, took a deep, steadying breath, and gently ran the tip of her wand over the tear, whispering, "Reparo." The rip disappeared, leaving not a trace, but still the paper bird did not move.

"Birda?" whispered Eileen, staring intently at his paper face.

"Avis Anima!" Hermione motioned with her wand. The bird lifted its head, fluttered its wings, and came to 'life' again.

"Birda!" shouted Eileen excitedly, applauding as it flew around her head.

"Shh!" said Hermione. "Birda doesn't realize he needs to rest, but let's not over-excite him all the same. We'll make him a cage. Do you have anything I can transfigure into one?"

Eileen thought for a moment, rocking back and forth with her fingers flicking in front of her face, before leaping off the couch and rushing to her tent. She emerged a moment later with an empty jar.

"That's where you keep your pocket money," said Severus. "Did you dump it all over the floor?"

"Cage a Birda," she replied, clearly meaning this was more important. She handed the jar to Hermione.

"This is perfect!" It took Hermione mere seconds to turn it from a pickle jar to a home fit for a bird, complete with little perch. She even made it a little post so it could be set beside Eileen's tent, where she could reach it, and ushered the paper bird inside.

"I'm impressed," said Severus, smiling at her the way he'd smiled when playing with Eileen earlier in the afternoon. Hermione felt herself blushing (yes, again). "Minerva would be proud. Fifty points to Gryffindor. Now, Eileen, what do you say to Miss Granger for fixing your bird?"

"Thank you!" said Eileen, staring lovingly at her little bird in his cage. "Thank you, Mudblood Witch."

"Eileen." Severus knelt beside his daughter and used his thumb and forefinger to turn her face until she was making eye contact with him. "I don't believe Miss Granger enjoys being called Mudblood Witch. Try saying her name, won't you? Hermione."

Eileen cocked her head to one side.

"Her-my-oh-nee," said Severus.

"Mudblood Witch," said Eileen.

"Herrr..." prompted Severus.

 _"Herrr..."_

"Myyyy..."

 _"Myyyy..."_

"Ohhhh..."

 _"Ohhhh..."_

"Nee. Hermione." He was regarding her very seriously.

Eileen stared equally seriously back at him. "Hom-nimee."

"H _erm_ ione."

"Him-er-ny."

"Her- _my-oh_ -nee."

"Hah-mih-ninny."

"That's fine!" Hermione interrupted before Severus could try again. "Hah-mih-ninny is close enough! I've certainly been called worse!"

"Hah-mih-ninny," solidified Eileen with a decisive nod.

Hermione grinned. The girl was odd, yes, but there was something completely endearing about her.

She reminded Hermione a little of Luna.

-0-0-0-

"Well," said Severus, rising. "Since that's done, and since the bird is... heading to bed..." He stole a glance at it, fluttering in its cage, and wondered if he would have to listen to paper flapping all damn night. "It's time to get you into pajamas, Eileen."

"No!"

"We're not fighting about it. We... we have to set a good example. For the bird." He felt ridiculous, treating the thing like an actual pet, but since it made her happy he reckoned he might as well use it to his advantage. "You don't want Birda to think you're the sort of little girl who doesn't listen to her father, do you?"

Eileen contemplated this for a moment that felt, to Severus, far too long. But finally she replied, "Night-night," and headed into the bedroom where their clothes were kept. He followed, dressed her, brought her into the loo to brush teeth and use the toilet (she'd finally stopped having accidents around age five, but he was carefully to make sure she never forgot to 'go' before bedtime just in case), washed her hands, and brought her back to the sitting room to say goodnight to "Hah-mih-ninny" and Birda.

They sat on the couch and read a story, as they usually did before bed, and much to his surprise a few pages into it he stopped feeling awkward about Hermione's presence, even though he would not typically let anyone – let alone a former student – see him making funny faces and using different voices to play each character in this Ancient Roman magical myth.

Once they were certain she'd fallen asleep, Hermione waved her wand at the bird and it fell lifeless to the bottom of the cage.

"In the morning, tell her he's asleep. Use Avis Anima to reanimate it, moving your wand like this over its body..." She showed him. "And it should last until you cancel the spell."

"Brilliant," breathed Severus. "She's wanted a pet for a very long time and you've managed to give her one that won't shit all over the furniture, require feeding, or make a lot of noise. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Perhaps there's something you can do for me in return," she said, shrugging one shoulder slightly, in a way that seemed almost... flirtatious.

He cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"I think I've got this rune riddle half figured out!" Hermione pulled a rolled piece of parchment from her pocket. "But I'd like a second opinion."

"Of course," he said, hoping she couldn't sense his disappointment.

They settled side by side on the couch. He summoned over a glass and the wine for her but firewhiskey for himself, as he felt he needed something stronger tonight.

"I think the nine means 'ninth,' so... this is what I have thus far," began Hermione. She showed him her notes, reading each line aloud.

 _Ninth solo warrior, stronger than sun,_

 _Upon his creation, war was begun._

 _Sons sired thrice, daughters none._

 _Second of three, bound for love_

 _Child hath born, mother above_

 _Two destroyed, here thereof_

 _Buried upon, ruins of past_

 _Ghosts beyond, spirits last_

 _Stone hidden, babe outcast_

 _Goddess of War, given name_

 _Masters of Death, none the same_

 _Broken to Rome, she has came_

 _Live and die, carry on_

 _Inheritance, spawn to spawn_

 _With the stone, never gone._

Hermione smiled shakily at Severus, obviously seeking his approval.

"Well? Do you think I've got it right?"

"Yes." He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but she had come up with the same translation he had, though she'd placed a few extra words in there (the, has, to...) which kept the cadence and helped to make the message clearer. Damn. Had she started to work out what it all meant, too? So fucking _fast?_ Was she a genius, or was he a dunderhead? "Yes, I believe you'd got it right."

"Oh, good!" The relief washed over her face reminded him of his days as her professor. It was the same expression she wore whenever she received high marks in his potions class, which had annoyed him at the time – surely she knew she'd done well, and didn't need his approval? – but for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps she did, and what he had interpreted as compliment seeking was actually thinly veiled self-doubt. He battled back the old familiar twinge of guilt.

"Have you worked out what any of it means, Miss... Hermione?" (He would have to work on getting used to using her first name, as his inclination was still to address her more formally.)

"I believe the bust of the woman is a memorial monument and the other stone with the carvings is a headstone. I believe a woman was buried in that place, but not in Ancient Rome, much later. An English woman, or, at least, a woman with strong connections to the wizarding world in the UK, and I believe she is somehow connected to the Peverell brothers."

This was all correct, but to confirm would be to admit he'd already solved the mystery, thus he nodded, stroked his chin, and tried to look thoughtful.

"Could be..."

"We know that the third brother had no wife or children. His line died with him and the 'Death Stick' was transferred from one unrelated wizard to another until Dumbledore, so that leaves him out."

"Makes sense."

"And we know that the first brother kept the cloak, lived a long happy life, and passed it down to his son, who then gave it to his granddaughter, who married a Potter and then continued handing it down through the Potter line until it reached Harry."

"Indeed." His cheek twitched at the name Potter – though he was past his infatuation with his beloved Lily, he would never get over his hatred toward James. He cleared his throat yet again. "So that leaves...?"

"The middle brother, the one whose line extended through the Slytherins and Gaunts and ended with Tom Riddle."

"Ended with, yes," said Severus, though he wondered if Hermione caught the uneasy way he glanced at Eileen's tent at the mention of the Dark Lord's given name.

"My guess is that it relates somehow to him. It even mentions a stone, surely that could be the Philosopher's Stone: 'Stone hidden, babe outcast' and 'With the stone, never gone.' I've studied the family lines extensively, that's what I spent my free time doing at Hogwarts my last year, I think I mentioned it to you already, but I didn't find anything about Rome... Goodness, it's hot in here tonight." She pulled her jumper over her head and tossed it to the easy chair before adjusting the straps of her mint green tank-top. He tried not to stare but couldn't help committing her figure to memory.

"What I need is a library," said Hermione. She twirled a lock of her frazzled brown hair around her index finger and peered around the room as if a library might appear. Severus narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly, thinking. He had gotten the information needed to take the next necessary step from a book left to his mother by his great-great-grandfather, but how could he offer it to Hermione without admitting he'd already done this part?

Hermione stood and began to pace before the couch, muttering. "A library... a library... I need a library..."

"There's no Room of Requirement in my rented flat, Hermione. It doesn't matter how many times you walk back and forth desperately seeking a lib..."

"There!" She pointed to his bookcase. "You have some old and rare books, don't you? May I look? You never know what you might find!"

She didn't await his permission. She flew to the wide, tall bookshelf, transfigured one of the battered old potions textbooks into a stool, and stood upon it to start with the top. He almost wanted to tell her that the tome she sought was on the bottom shelf, fourth from right, but frankly, he was enjoying the view. When she reached, he could see the side of her breast through her tank-top and to his pleasant surprise it appeared she had not bothered with a bra. He wondered whether she would bend down to peruse the titles on the lower shelves or if she'd kneel on the floor. Frankly, he wouldn't mind her in either position.

It took what felt like an agonizingly long time for Severus, but she finally set her eyes upon the book from which he'd gleaned the necessary information. Her eyes lit up as soon as she ran her finger down the index.

"This book is all about the four founders, their lineage, their ancestors, their family migration patterns across Europe, plus their beliefs and the school and Slytherin's falling out, and... If this headstone belongs to a member of the Peverell family from whom the Slytherins and Gaunts were descended, there may be a clue in chapters nine through twelve!"

 _Eleven,_ he almost said.

"Could we read through it now? Oh, no, I'm sorry, you must be counting down the minutes for me to leave; I'm sure you're tired. I'm imposing. I could... perhaps... borrow the book, and bring it back..."

"We could skim it now," he interrupted. He was indeed tired (he hadn't had a good night's sleep in... well... years, maybe) but at the same time, he didn't want her to leave. "If you borrow the book, I'll lay awake all night wondering if you're solving this mystery without me."

"Oh. Alright then!" She smiled. He smiled. He liked her smile. "Let's read together then, shall we? Can't have me keeping you awake all night."

"No," he concurred dryly. "Can't have _that."_

She settled back beside him on the couch, her left thigh flush against his right, the dusty, leather-bound book open across their laps. They'd only managed to get through the first paragraph, though, when the screaming began.

Severus knew right away, this would be one of her worst ones. One of the ones he'd considered describing in his letter to Minerva. One that could not be easily soothed.

Hermione left up from the couch, letting the book fall to the floor. Severus did not have time to explain. He hurried to the tent, reached inside, and removed Eileen.

He carried her to the armchair, where he sat and tried to control her body, which was somehow at once boneless and rigid. Her head flopped, her back bent unnaturally, as if she were a Muggle gymnast attempting a bridge, but her arms stuck out stiffly as if rigor mortus was setting in. She shrieked, her legs twitched, and she seemed oblivious to Severus' attempts to soothe her.

Hermione stood opposite the chair, staring wide-eyed at the little girl, whose eyes were rolling back in her head. Her own eyes filled with tears. The child appeared to be in such distress, such pain. He tried to hold her in a tight hug, whispering words of comfort.

Eileen's eyes closed briefly, her screaming ceased, and Severus almost started to relax, but then she flopped back once more, facing Hermione but with her chin toward the ceiling and her neck almost unnaturally bent, and her eyes opened to reveal only the whites.

 _"Cissy!"_ hissed Eileen in a harsh voice not quite her own. _"Put the boys in the cellar. I'm going to have a conversation with this one, girl to girl."_

Hermione audibly gasped, flinched, and stumbled back, her hand to her chest.

"What?" she whispered. "How?"

Eileen's head snapped back up, she made eye contact with Severus, then she passed out. He cradled her face in his hands and tried to wake her, calling her name. It took only seconds for her to regain consciousness.

"Fire!" she shrieked, convulsing and tearing at her arms and nightdress with her short fingernails. "Fire! Fire! Burns! Help!" Eileen wrestled with her nightdress, getting it tangled around her neck, her arms free from the sleeves. She pulled at the next as if being choked and, sobbing, continued to scream, "Fire! Fire!"

With a quick, concerned glance at Hermione, who was staring at them with abject horror, Severus stood, holding the girl to his chest, tore the nightdress off her, and rushed from the room.

-0-0-0-

Hermione stood in the center of the sitting room, too shocked to move, for several seconds before her brain was able to signal her feet to follow them.

When she made it to the doorway of the bathroom it was to find Severus standing in the tub with the shower on, clutching the sobbing child in his arms. The water streamed down over them. He was fully clothed and sopping wet from his hair to his socks – he'd removed his shoes – and she was soaked as well, though she wore only her knickers.

"Fire," she whimpered, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her voice small and meak. "Fire, fire."

"We put it out, love," he said. "The fire is out. It's gone now."

"Water," she whimpered. "No water."

"I know you hate the water," said Severus in a soft, soothing tone. "But the water puts out the fire. The water makes the fire go away." He kissed her temple, smoothing back her silvery hair, which stuck to her skin, and rocked from side to side. "The water is good."

"Baba!" cried Eileen miserably. "Baba is a hurts Eileen fire."

"I know the fire hurts you, my sweet girl. That's why we need the water. The water is cool. The water puts the fire out."

"Baba..." Her eyelids drooped, her body went slack. Severus closed his eyes for a long moment before reaching out to turn off the water. When he opened them, he spotted Hermione watching.

"She's asleep," he whispered. "But only for a couple of hours. In a couple of hours, she'll have a nightmare. She'll wake up crying."

"Wasn't _this_ a nightmare?" Hermione whispered. It certainly seemed like one to her.

"This was a night terror. They're not quite the same."

He shivered and hoisted the girl up higher. He was positively drenched. Hermione glanced around, found towels, and hurried over with two. She wrapped one around Eileen and took her from his arms. He accepted the other but dropped it to the edge of the tub, rested his back against the wall, and slunk down into a seated position.

"I need a moment," he said. "Only a moment."

"I'll take care of her." Hermione carried the child back into the sitting room. She settled in the armchair and gently dried the girl's skin and hair, though she used a charm for the latter (not quite as effective but twice as efficient), removed her knickers to dry them too, and redressed her. Hermione then carried her to the tent, knelt, crawled awkwardly inside, and tucked the girl back into her toddler bed.

She stared at the pale, puffy-eyed face of the sleeping six-year-old for what must have been a good five minutes before crawling back out. That voice she'd used, those words she'd said... Hermione hadn't heard them in over five years, save for in her own occasional nightmares.

 _Is it possible for a person to be possessed by someone from beyond the grave?_ Hermione wondered. Because that's what it had looked like, what it had sounded like. Possession.

Caught somewhere between feeling greatly unsettled and completely terrified, Hermione returned to the loo. Severus was right where she'd left him, on the floor of the tub, with his eyes closed. The towel had been ignored. Hermione picked it up, sat on the edge of the tub, and began drying his face.

"I'm exhausted," he confessed, not opening his eyes. "Every night as of late. And she'll be up again in two hours. Every night."

"How could she have known?" whispered Hermione as she moved to drying his hair, pleasantly surprised that he wasn't pushing her away.

"Known what?"

"What she said... those words... Those were the words Bellatrix Lestrange said... said to... to her sister, to Narcissa, when we were captured and brought to Malfoy Manor. She told her sister to put Ron and Harry in the cellar, where they had a... a dungeon, I suppose you could call it... and then she... Bellatrix... she... she tortured me. That was the... that was when she did this."

Hermione held out her forearm. He opened his eyes and glanced at the word carved into her skin, nodded, and closed them again.

"I didn't know. She's said that before, that line about the 'conversation girl-to-girl,' and I didn't know... I've asked Eileen what it means and she doesn't know."

"Well," whispered Hermione. She placed the towel in her lap and unbuttoned his collar. "Now _you_ know."

"She's a special child." He cleared his throat. "I knew before I took her that she was... different. But I had to do it. I couldn't leave her. Not where she was. Not knowing the way they would treat her."

"You should get out of these wet clothes." Hermione climbed into the tub, kneeling between Severus' knees, and continued unbuttoning down his black shirt. "You'll catch cold."

"I'm exhausted. It was easier, with my mother here. We took turns. Shifts. I could go out sometimes, get away. I don't know how Minerva managed her child alone for twelve years. But I took Eileen to save her and I do not regret it."

"Took her from whom? Save her from what?" Hermione was halfway to the bottom of his shirt now. "Why?

"I decided whether or not she was mine, it didn't matter. I had to get her out of there."

Hermione had reached the last button. She paused momentarily before making the decision to push the shirt over Severus' broad, rounded shoulders. He was an angular man, aside from his shoulders. He sat up a bit to allow her to remove the shirt entirely. She hung it on the edge of the tub, picked up the towel, and was wiping it across his chest when she spotted the black lines. There were several of them, all splintered off from a single spot on the side of his neck, the wound left by the snake.

"Scars?" she whispered, suddenly distracted from his significant last words. She ran her fingers lightly over one of the darkest lines, which traveled from his neck to the top of his shoulder, over his shoulder, and down his arm, finally fading away between his wrist and hand. It looked almost like ink, like someone had poured ink in the injury and let it travel through his veins down his right arm and the right side of his chest.

"Nagini's venom was poisonous," said Severus. "But I've no idea why it left the marks it did."

She inched closer to him, repositioning so her knees were on either side of his legs. He did not object when she balanced herself on the tops of his thighs, though it meant she was practically sitting in – or straddling – his lap (which caused a dampness in her jeans as his trousers were still soaking wet). Ignoring the discomfort, she turned his head and moved his hair to better examine the raised, angry scarring on the side of his throat.

"I haven't really seen it before. When I tried to... when I was calling for Fawkes, I was holding a handkerchief to it to staunch the bleeding. You lost a lot of blood."

"I know."

"I should have gone for a blood replenishing potion. I should have..."

"Hush." He brought one finger up to her lips to quiet her as his opposite hand met her lower back, just under the fabric of her tanktop. Her skin tingled at his touch as she became acutely aware of the intimacy of their positions. She was about to pull away when his other hand joined the one on her back and he pulled her closer, almost as if in a hug. She felt herself relaxing in his arms.

Then, without giving proper consideration to what she was about to do, without even stopping to ask herself why she felt compelled to do it, she closed her own eyes, let her chest fall flush against his, and pressed her lips gently to the scars on his neck.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Some dialogue borrowed from the film version of Deathly Hallows (because I particularly love HBC as Bella in that scene). Sorry for the late posting. I am a bit behind as I've had guests visiting since last Friday and they're not leaving until this Monday, so the next chapter will likely be a little late too (Tuesday is my goal). On the plus side, lack of editing time means chapters are longer than they should be! lol (silver lining). Anyway, thanks for reading! If you don't mind, please leave me a review to let me know what you think so far and whether you have any questions, requests, or critiques. Thx!

 **-AL**


	8. Alone

**CHAPTER EIGHT:**

 **Alone**

 ** _"It don't matter where we go_**

 ** _We'll never be alone_**

 ** _Anywhere besides you, is a place that I'll call home..."_**

 **-Kacey Musgraves**

She pulled back slightly, gauging his response. When he did not reprimand her for having kissed his scar, she did it a second time, then a third time. His hand came up to rest under against the back of her neck under her hair, which she took as encouragement. She kissed his neck again, just below the scar, and again, moving toward the center of his throat, and again, and again, until her slightly parted, tongue-moistened lips made contact with his Adam's apple. He groaned, fisted her hair, and jerked her head back. For several seconds they simply stared at each other. She felt her insides flutter and churn; she was breathing much too hard. How would he react? What would he say? What had she been thinking? How could she even begin to explain herself?

Her mouth opened slightly, but before she could speak, his lips were on her lower cheek, just barely brushing the corner of her relieved smile, and down to her jaw line and throat and then back up again, higher on her cheek, and higher, and down to her ear, and just below her ear, and she whimpered as his mouth closed over her earlobe, as his tongue flicked ever-so-slightly against her skin... she shifted in his lap, wanting more, not wanting him to stop...

And then, abruptly, he pulled back just a bit, breathing into her wild hair, and she heard the low growl of his voice in her ear.

"You are far too good for me."

"No," she whispered. Her breasts brushed against his bare chest as she willed her breathing back to normal. One of his hands remained on her lower back just under the material of her tank top, while the other hand remained fisted in her hair. He was breathing hard too, and she fought the urge to place her hand on his chest, over the black lined scarring, to feel his smooth skin beneath her fingertips. Should she kiss him again? Should she press her lips to his? Would he let her?

"You're far too good for me and this is a mistake." He said this with conviction, which made her heart constrict, but his lips moved to her temple, where he placed one hard and final and confusing kiss. He then released her hair, threw back his head, and closed his eyes. "I need to dry and dress. You need to leave. _Now._ It's late."

"But the mystery..."

He cut her off. "It can wait until tomorrow."

(That, at least, was some relief – he intended to let her return tomorrow.)

"Eileen and I will cook dinner for you. To thank you for... tonight."

"That would be lovely," she said softly, but she still made no attempt to get off his lap (though she, too, needed to dry. The water from his trousers had soaked through her jeans, which she knew would lead to a rash if not correctly quickly). "Severus?"

"Shh." He tapped her outer thigh twice, the gentle way one might prod along a puppy, and she stood. She could not look at him. She knew her face was beet red, as she was mortified not only by her actions but by his response... and subsequent rejection. Because it was indeed a rejection, of that she was certain. He couldn't possibly think she was too good for him. No. That was merely a way to dissuade a potential suitor without having to rely on the old "We're better as friends" or "I'm seeing someone." Though she had precious little dating experience, Hermione had witnessed enough drama among her peers to know "You're too good for me" meant the same thing as, "It's not you, it's me." So the only way to save face now would be to... to what, exactly?

"I'm sorry," she said, still not looking at him, as she used her wand to dry her jeans. "I don't know what came over me."

"The late hour, the tension of the moment, and the wine, no doubt," said Severus offhandedly. "I, too, apologize, and I promise it shall not happen again."

"Of... of course. Of course it shouldn't. It won't," agreed Hermione, though she couldn't help wondering if there was a shade redder than the red she'd already turned, because if there were, she'd be turning it now. Tomato, perhaps. They were redder than beets. She felt the heat of her humiliation spread down her neck and across her chest and wished she hadn't removed her jumper earlier, for her tank-top didn't hide a whole lot.

"Hermione, I..."

"I'll just... get my things." Without letting him finish his thought, she hurried from the bathroom into the sitting room to retrieve her jumper, and then into the kitchen for her bag and the leftover ingredients from dinner. He did not follow right away. Should she wait for him? Should she say goodbye? Or should she apparate straight away from right here beside the refrigerator, allowing them both some time before they had to face each other again?

She heard the bedroom door open and close. She began to count in her head, figuring if she got to fifty and he hadn't emerged, she would leave.

She heard the door creak open again at forty-eight.

"Miss Granger?" Severus whispered loudly as he re-entered the sitting room. "Hermione? Are you in the kitchen?"

Light streamed into the pitch dark room from the hall, lighting him ominously from behind.

"I'm still here," she replied, stepping into the sitting room opposite him. "I was about to apparate home."

"Please do return tomorrow. I look forward to cooking for you."

"You don't have to."

"I am well aware that I have no obligation to do so, but I would _like_ to. And after dinner... while Eileen is playing, perhaps, before it gets too late to... focus properly... we can discuss the mystery of the runes. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." She fingered her wand anxiously, hoping he couldn't tell that she was on the verge of tears. In the steadiest voice she could manage, she added, "Goodnight, Professor Snape."

"Goodnight, Miss Granger."

-0-0-0-

She was gone with a loud crack.

He made his way to the easy chair and collapsed onto it. He'd thought she might have left while he was quickly changing into pajamas and was glad she hadn't, though he felt sickened by the quiver in her voice when she'd said goodnight. Why did she have to go and kiss him like that, all over his scar, as if it didn't repulse her? Surely it _had_ to repulse her! The black lines down his right arm, back, and chest were unsightly enough, but they were nothing compared to the horrible disfigurement left by the snake's fangs in his throat. No woman had ever kissed him there, or even touched the marking. The Muggle women he'd been with hadn't seen it, for he'd used a Glamour (despite how difficult it was to maintain during strenuous activity), and the witches he'd had since the war... the best he could hope for with them was that the look of revulsion was short-lived and the hideousness forgiven on account of his war-hero status.

But she'd bloody seen it, and touched it, and _kissed_ it.

And he'd consequently become overwhelmed and grateful and turned on and felt stupidly encouraged to do the same to her, to press his lips all over the silky skin of her cheek and jaw and neck and throat and below her ear... he felt a tug in his groin recalling how his tongue had run along the bottom of her earlobe and cleared his throat.

What he'd told her was true. She was too damn good for him.

Not to mention too damn young.

And too damn smart.

And too damn forgiving.

And too damn attractive.

And so he _had_ to reject her. It was for her own good. She was only in Rome a short duration, seeking a little excitement, history, a mystery, and he could give her all that, and doing so would allow him to spend a little time with her, but he absolutely could not – would not – try to make something more of it. No. No, as badly as he wanted to take her to bed, as much as he had to admit he'd wanted that since their first conversation on his couch the night he and Eileen found her injured among the ruins, he was not going to be the man his father raised him to be, the type to use and abuse and discard women, to care only about his own needs, the type of man who would fuck his own former student despite knowing how vulnerable and confused and innocent she surely was. She didn't seem like an easy woman, but she _did_ seem like an easy target, and he would _not_ prey on her.

It was bad enough, drawing out this mystery to keep her coming back, letting her cook for them, letting Eileen potentially get attached, simply because he was fucking lonely and pathetic and tired of the tedium of his own life, much as she'd been tired of hers while working at the Ministry.

Eileen was his life now, he reminded himself. She was his family and the only girl in his world who mattered. He didn't have the time or energy to spend on anyone else, especially not someone as deserving of the best in life as the woman who'd saved his, despite evidence painting him as the enemy at the time. No, wherever he went, whatever he did, he was to do it knowing that he could not be somebody's boyfriend or professor or servant, because he was wrapped up in being somebody's father.

So he was going to let Hermione solve the mystery, and then be done with her. Perhaps she'd even manage it tomorrow night, since she seemed close enough, and once it was done he was going to thank her as if he hadn't already figured out the answers, and he was then going to walk away... take Eileen on a short holiday, perhaps... and remind Miss Hermione Granger that she was to tell no one of his existence, if not for his sake, than for the child's. (He was confident she'd oblige.) By the time he and Eileen returned, the young Gryffindor will have moved onto the next destination and he could return to his own life, dedicated to ensuring his motherless daughter not meet the same fate as Minerva's bastard son.

He meant to transfigure the couch into a bed and go to bed, but ended up drifting off sitting up in the chair. When he awoke hours later to the sound of Eileen crying and calling his name after a nightmare, his joints were stiff and he had a headache. By the time he got her back to sleep, he barely had enough energy to collapse onto the couch, where he spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and hating himself.

-0-0-0-

The tears started to fall the second she reappeared in the sitting room of her rented apartment. What had she been thinking? She _wasn't_ thinking, that was it! She couldn't believe her foolish actions, kissing him like that, placing kisses all along his neck and throat, and liking it when he did the same to her, and wanting him in a way she'd never wanted any man before, save, perhaps, for Ron...

And yet, this felt different than what she had with Ron.

Ron was a boy. Even at twenty-three, he was very much still a boy in so many ways. Despite his desire to marry her, an undoubtedly grownup decision, Hermione often couldn't help feeling like she was still dating the teenager who'd kissed her quite unexpectedly during the Final Battle at Hogwarts, when they thought they might die but had to give into their mutual attraction for just a few seconds before finishing the fight.

Maybe she was missing him. Maybe that's what drove her to throwing herself at the former potions professor. Maybe she was suffering from a lack of physical contact since she'd been on sabbatical for six months and they'd hardly had sex at all for the four months leading up to it (though, if she were completely honest with herself, the fire in their relationship – what little there had ever been – had been dying out for over a year). That _had_ to be it. The tension of the moment, the wine, the late hour, as Severus had said... plus she missed home, she missed her friends, she missed personal connections... and he reminded her of home, didn't he? He must. That must be it. That must be part of it. She missed home and he represented home and her mind had subsequently run away... run away as she always did with the man from the masquerade in her dreams.

Merlin's beard, she felt stupid.

How could she possibly return there for dinner? How could she look Severus Snape, knowing she'd thrown herself at him and been so swiftly rejected? She felt like a silly teenager suffering an impossible crush.

She left the ingredients bag on the floor of the sitting room and hurried into the bedroom, where she collapsed face-first onto the bed, sobbing.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

-0-0-0-

Severus awoke early feeling not at all rested. Since Eileen was still sound asleep, he decided to take a long, hot shower, with the intention of decompressing from the night before. Perhaps he was being too hard on himself. It wasn't as though he'd taken advantage of her. She'd removed his shirt. She'd crawled in his lap. She'd pressed her lips to the scar on his neck. What had he done? Let her. Let her, because he was too exhausted _not_ to let her. And what had she done, really? Taken pity on him, most likely. Gotten swept up. Lost her head. It wasn't as if she'd propositioned him. It wasn't as if he'd taken her to bed.

It was _nothing,_ really.

He groaned, closing his eyes as the shampoo rinsed from his hair, and tried not to notice the fact that his body was responding quite inappropriately to the memory of her last night on the floor of the tub straddling his lap while he had his hands on her lower back. He was glad that she hadn't seemed to notice the effect she'd had on him, grateful his trousers, the cold water, and sheer willpower had contributed to keeping it from being too obvious.

He groaned uncomfortably, remembering how it had felt to have her tits pressed against his chest, her inner thighs on either side of his legs, her lips to the center of his throat...

So what if he _did_ end up fucking her? She was an adult. Old enough to make her own decisions, to know what she wanted and with whom. He would make it clear from go that their relationship, whatever it may be, would not be a romantic one. He would not be asking her to spend the night in his arms or telling her how much he adored her or any of that rubbish. He would not let her fall for him – no, that would be cruel – but if she _were_ interested in something strictly physical... something pleasurable... something that could benefit them both...

"She's too good for that _and_ too good for you," he grumbled aloud, glaring down at his erection, furious at both his body and mind for even considering this possibility. But he closed his eyes and envisioned her there in the shower with him, straddling his lap, kissing his neck,her breasts flush to his chest, and let his imagination play out how the scene might have enfolded the night before had he not stopped it when it did.

-0-0-0-

Hermione couldn't stomach even the thought of breakfast, though she did prepare herself a calming cup of tea. She sipped it slowly at the table in her temporary kitchen while lost in thought.

She needed something else to focus on, something completely unrelated to Severus Snape and the runes mystery and odd little Eileen with her flicking fingers, language struggles, and enchanting giggle.

Or perhaps...

Perhaps odd little Eileen was _precisely_ what she needed to focus on.

What did she know of the girl?

Severus had called her "different" and "special" and said their world would be cruel to her, as it was to the Dark Lord's mother and Dumbledore's sister, but both of those young women had become near-squibs (almost an Obscurial, in the latter case) due to outside stress, abuse, and fear, whereas Hermione was under the impression Eileen had been born different and special. He'd also said Minerva had managed to do this for twelve years, which confused Hermione, as she hadn't been aware Minerva had any children. Could she have been a mother? Was she married? What happened after twelve years? Surely whatever this... this affliction was... it couldn't have _killed_ the child?

And what to make of Eileen's "night terror," the screaming, the belief she was on fire? How had she known verbatim what Bellatrix Lestrange had said to Narcissa before torturing Hermione? For that matter, how had she known Hermione was a Mudblood witch? And why did she think Rita Skeeter was a vampire?

Possession?

A Seer?

Who could her mother have been? Severus must have been sleeping with someone... of course, he'd also indicated there was a possibility he _wasn't_ her father... and unless she had misunderstood him, he _might_ have even confessed to kidnapping her...

Ugh.

Hermione was so bloody confused.

And she had no idea where to begin researching. Rome's magical community, despite dating back farther than most in documented history, was incredibly small. There was no Owl post, there were no magical schools or tutors nearby, and there certainly wasn't a wizarding library like the one she'd been fortunate enough to live walking distance from in London.

Hermione set down her tea, no longer interested in it. Perhaps she should send a letter to Molly Weasley? In it, she could write that she heard a rumor that Minerva McGonagall had a child who passed away and wanted to know if it were true but did not want the Headmistress to know she was asking, as it was so personal and potentially upsetting. She could ask the Weasley matriarch to keep her inquiry a secret, which she was sure the woman would. With any luck, her response would include enough information to get Hermione's research started and from there she could start to understand why Severus Snape was so intensely intent on keeping the girl a secret from their world, and so insistent that he had taken her to save her.

She summoned over an inkwell, quill, and parchment, and began to write.

 _Dear Molly,_

 _I hope you and the family are well..._

-0-0-0-

Why had he said he'd cook for her?

He didn't fucking know how to cook.

He could barely boil a fucking egg.

He had a habit of burning toast.

And Eileen even pulled a face when he attempted canned soup.

"I know what we'll do," he said aloud as he toweled off from his shower (trying not to feel guilty over having brought himself to release while thinking about the Muggle-born witch minutes before). "I'll take Eileen out, we'll buy a dinner that's already cooked, I'll Vanish all of the packaging and put it in dishes, then simply warm it as soon as she arrives and pretend we made it ourselves. Yes, that's it." He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and frowned at his reflection. "Don't bloody judge me. What's one more lie?"

"Baba?" There was a knock at the bathroom door. "Baba, go-GO Eileen!"

Knowing what "go-GO!" meant, he quickly threw the towel around his bare shoulders, pulled on the pajama pants, and opened the door. Standing on the other side was his daughter in her nightdress. She had her legs crossed and she was wiggling, her face screwed up as if in pain. He scooped her up, brought her to the toilet, and had her seated just in time to avoid an accident.

He wondered if anyone he'd known in his Death Eater days could have pictured him like this in the future. Not by a long-shot, he suspected. He could hardly picture himself like this, and this had been his life for the last four years. He'd potty-trained the girl with his mother's help, and taught her to talk, and was now trying to teach her to wash herself in the bath (no easy feat, given her fear of water). He alone brushed and braided her hair, dressed her, kept her fed, and read bedtime stories. He played with her, taught her about magic, disciplined her in a non-threatening way, and cuddled her after her scary dreams. And every day, at least once per day, he made it a point to tell her that he loved her.

He was, by all accounts, a much better father than his own had been. Worlds better.

But he still felt he was failing.

He especially felt it after breakfast, when instead of consenting to studying History of Magic with him, she knelt on the floor by the window, basked in sunlight, rocked back and forth, flicked her fingers, and made noises that fell somewhere between tuneless humming and horse whinnies, staring out of the corner of her eyes at something he couldn't see, and completely unresponsive to her name.

He hoped Minerva would receive his letter soon and reply promptly.

His desperation was growing with each passing day.

-0-0-0-

She hoped Mrs. Weasley would receive her letter soon and reply promptly.

Her curiosity was growing with each passing day.

-0-0-0-

By the time they picked up the already-prepared meal (pizzas, but fancy pizzas! One had salmon, mozzarella, and ginger, while the other was made with tomato, chili pepper, basil, and dark chocolate powder... and a plain cheese one for picky Eileen) Severus was as exhausted as he'd been the night before. The child had not had a good day. Quite the opposite. When she wasn't lost in her own world, she was tantruming. Over everything. She even ripped off one of Birda's wings on purpose then sobbed when Severus refused to repair it.

"Baba, save Birda!" shrieked Eileen, addressing him by name for the first time since she'd asked to use to bathroom that morning. When he did not immediately do as instructed, she threw a pillow at her tent, screamed her loudest scream, and punched herself in the temple.

"Young lady, you stop that behavior this instant!" roared Severus, in a tone and volume rarely used since his days teaching that dunderhead Potter Occlumency. "Sit in that chair and do not move!"

Her response was to scream again, to throw herself stomach-down on the floor, pound her fists, and kick her feet. She rolled onto her back and banged the back of her head on the floor. He knew this was only for attention but it worked, as he wasn't going to let her give herself a bloody concussion. He lifted her up despite her attempts to go boneless in his arms and tossed her on the arm chair.

"Sit there and stop screaming."

She glared at him, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth defiantly, but a loud knock door distracted them.

"Miss Granger?" called Severus, heading toward the hall. "Hermione?"

"Yes, it's me!" she replied. "May I come in?"

He waved his wand and the door opened. "Certainly."

"Playing Monster again? I heard screaming."

"You could say that." He led her into the sitting room. "Only this time, I'm not the monster."

Eileen pointed a finger at Hermione. "Mudblood witch! Save Birda!"

"Eileen!" snapped Severus. "I told you not to call her that anymore."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to ask what was going on, but she hesitated, and during the moment's silence Eileen scrunched up her face, leapt off the chair, and ran to the glass cage of her paper bird. She picked it up and smashed it on the floor, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. Severus swore and raised his wand to Vanish it, but he was not fast enough. Eileen took a step forward, there was a crunch, and she began to wail, standing on one leg to grasp her injured foot.

"Stay still!" ordered Hermione. She stepped forward to pick up the girl as Severus did away with the glass. She carried Eileen, who was sobbing and bleeding and shaking and sniffling, to the couch to examine her foot. "Oh, Severus, look! The glass is still in there. I could remove it, perhaps..." But when Hermione pointed her wand at Eileen's foot, the child panicked and tried to scramble away. She placed her foot on the floor, pushing the glass deeper into her sole, and fell to her knees.

"I'm terribly sorry about this," said Severus, raising his wand. He pointed it at the child. "Petrificus Totalus."

-0-0-0-

Once Eileen had gone stiff and stopped moving, Hermione again placed her on the couch. She did not ask what had happened, preferring to pretend she hadn't walked in on the Third Great Wizarding War of the last hundred years waging in Severus' sitting room. Instead, she simply used magic to remove the glass, then held the girl as Severus slathered Essence of Dittany over the cut.

"I apologize," he murmured softly to Hermione as he wrapped a clear white bandage around Eileen's tiny foot. "You've caught us at a difficult time... on a difficult day."

"It's quite alright." Hermione brushed back the girl's silver hair with her fingertips in what she hoped was a maternal, comforting way. "We _all_ have our difficult days. I smashed a vase in frustration not two weeks ago, to be honest." She smiled down at the girl, knowing Eileen could still hear despite being unable to move. "Sometimes we all feel the urge to break something."

Without comment, Severus cancelled the effects of Petrificus Totalus. He seemed relieved when Eileen did not immediately leap back into her tantrum. It seemed having a gash in her foot had stopped it in its tracks. She scrambled into the arm chair, tucked her legs protectively under her body, and whimpered, not looking at her father or the "Mudblood Witch."

Hermione repaired Birda (but did not reanimate him) while Severus put away the bandaging and Dittany.

"I made pizza," he said half-heartedly. "If you're not too put off to stay for dinner as planned."

"Baba LIE." Eileen glared at him. "Baba no _make_ pizza. _Lie_ , Baba."

"Fine." He blew out a puff of air, which made the hair falling in front of his face flutter. "Eileen is correct. I did not make pizza; I bought it. With the intention of letting you believe that I made it." He stared pointedly at the child. "Happy?"

Eileen stared truculently back. " _Yes_."

Hermione concealed her snicker by turning it into a cough.

"It's good pizza," Severus grumbled, clearly a bit sore at his daughter for 'outing' him.

"Good pizza," echoed Eileen. "Baba _buyed_ it."

"I'll warm it up." Severus headed toward the kitchen, his shoulders slumped defeatedly.

"Well then," Hermione said pleasantly as she lifted the girl from the chair, refusing to let this ruin their evening. "Let's eat!"

* * *

 **A/N:**

This was a transitional, mostly introspective chapter, necessary but not the most exciting, I know. Sorry! I hope you weren't too bored! It heats up considerably in the next two chapters, if that helps. Also, the two pizzas I mentioned are on the menu at a pizza place in Rome called Life Pizzeria, which wasn't open in 2003 when this fic takes place, so I took some artistic liberty there. Thx!

 **–AL**


	9. In Your Eyes

**CHAPTER NINE:**

 **In Your Eyes**

 _ **I've sealed my fate**_  
 _ **Running through hell**_  
 _ **Heaven can wait**_

 _ **Long road to ruin**_  
 _ **There in your eyes...**_  
 _ **No dead-end in sight...**_

 **-Foo Fighters**

Severus cut both the specialty pies in half so he and Hermione could split them and sliced Eileen's up into small pieces. Hermione poured them each a glass of Coca Cola, which she found in small aluminum bottles in the refrigerator.

"We're you going to tell me you made this yourself too?" she asked, holding one up. "You didn't think I'd recognize it?"

"You seem to be in good spirits," he said dryly, purposely not answering the question. "Sleep well last night?"

"As well as to be expected, considering." She placed the glasses on the table before going in search of something else.

"Considering...?"

"All things considered." Her gaze shifted briefly down to his throat and back again to his face. He cleared his throat. Suddenly his collar felt too tight. A swift pain in his shin distracted him from staring at Hermione, who was placing napkins on the table beside their plates. He glanced down to find Eileen glaring up at him. She took a deep breath and held it.

"Please, don't," he said quietly. That's all he needed after a day like this. For the girl to make herself pass out, embarrassing him and ruining dinner. She closed her eyes but kept right on holding her breath.

"Now, none of that!" said Hermione. She pressed her index fingers to Eileen's dimpled cheeks, forcing the girl to expel air like a popped balloon. "We're going to eat. Do you want to wash your hands in the sink or should I use a cleaning charm on them?"

Apparently realizing she'd been momentarily defeated, Eileen held her hands out obediently and let Hermione wave over them with her wand. Hermione washed her own hands in the sink, so Severus did the same, and they settled at the table across from each other.

"Eileen, your father says you've had a difficult day. Why is that?"

"Bad dream," said Eileen, surprising Severus. He'd asked her dozens of times why she was in such a foul mood only to be answered with shrieks or whines, or to be ignored completely.

"About what? Sometimes it helps to talk about your nightmares."

Eileen looked doubtful but shocked her father by responding, "Snake man has a red eyes."

It was a long sentence, for her anyway, which surprised Severus even further. He knew Hermione was thinking what he was: Voldemort.

"I've had nightmares about the snake man too," said Hermione softly. She reached out to pat Eileen's hand, but the girl pulled away. "He's gone now, though. He can't hurt us. He can't ever come back."

"Mumma come back?"

"No," said Severus in such a no-nonsense tone both Hermione and Eileen flinched. "Your mother is not coming back. Your mother is dead. The Dark Lord – Snake Man – is dead. Once someone is dead, that someone cannot come back. Not ever. Not under any circumstances."

Severus knew Hermione knew this was not as simple and true as he was making it seem, but hoped she would have the good sense not to say so.

"Couldn't she take Dreamless Sleep before bed, Severus? Surely there must be a child-appropriate dosage or version?"

"Unfortunately, Dreamless Sleep does not appear to have any effect on Eileen." Severus cut off a second slice of the pizza made with dark chocolate and chili pepper. He took a bite, letting the hot, gooey cheese stretch from his mouth halfway to the plate. When he broke it off, he could tell sauce remained. Before he could raise his napkin, there was Hermione.

She brushed at his lower lip with her thumb. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed her hand, held it in place, and ever-so-briefly sucked the red sauce from her thumb. She watched him, wide-eyed, unblinking and not breathing, and he wondered whether she realized if they were alone, this would be the moment he kissed her, the moment he gathered her into his arms and perhaps threw her on the table and had his way with her...

But they were not alone.

And so all they did was stare at each other, his hand over her hand, across the small table.

Oblivious, Eileen hummed and rocked and munched on her cut up cheese pizza, apparently comforted by the knowledge that she was not the only one to dream about the scary Snake Man. She was flicking the fingers of her free hand when she made contact with her glass, upending it and sending soda across the table.

Severus leapt up, making quickly for his wand to Vanish it, while Hermione reached instinctively for her napkin.

Their moment was ruined, but the tension lingered all through dinner.

ir-0-0-0-

 _What was she thinking?!_

Not twenty-four hours earlier she'd been in his lap, kissing his neck in a bathtub, only to be swiftly rejected, and now here she was, wiping sauce from his lip like a... a... a... _girlfriend!_ She should thank Merlin he hadn't reacted by hexing her into November...

But his actual reaction was far more perplexing than if he had.

He'd sucked the sauce off her thumb.

He'd SUCKED the SAUCE off her THUMB.

What was that? What did that mean?

Why had he done it?

Why did she want him to do it again?

Why did she want to suggest they put the girl to bed early, retire to his bedroom, and experience each other in a way she'd never felt the desire to with any other man, save perhaps for Ronald Weasley.

( _Ronald Who?_ her mind screamed.)

Though they continued conversation after the soda spill as if nothing had happened, Hermione couldn't stop replaying the moment over and over again in her head. At one point she caught him smirking in her direction and realized with a jolt of horror that her incredibly open mind had probably let him see exactly what she was thinking and know precisely how she was feeling. Her skin flushed redder than the sauce she'd wiped from his lip.

"I think it is probable we can solve the mystery by the weekend," he said, rising and taking her empty plate along with his and Eileen's to the sink. "Do you agree?"

"I... yes. The weekend." What day was it? She couldn't recall. Tuesday, right? No, Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday. Without school or a job, it was difficult to keep track, but it was definitely Wednesday, second week in October.

When they re-entered the sitting room, they didn't rush right back into solving the mystery, as she expected. In fact, Hermione got the distinct impression Severus was stalling. He picked up the thrown pillows, folded a pile of Eileen's clean clothing, and talked about a number of different things, all completely unrelated to Rome and the runes.

"Eileen, believe it or not, was a pudgy baby," he said as he added another folded nightdress to the pile. "Her mother over-fed her."

Eileen glanced up at the mention of her mother. She was sitting on the floor in front of the couch upon which Severus and Hermione sat. She was rocking on her knees and had been staring at the wall opposite them.

"Now she's too thin. She refused to eat for months after my mother passed. I had to practically force-feed her. She liked the fish and chips you made last night. Perhaps I should get in the habit of cooking her more food from home. Not that I think she remembers home..."

"Home," said Eileen definitely. "Mumma."

"You dream about your mother but you don't really remember her," said Severus dismissively, but Hermione caught the way the girl's brow furrowed in response.

"How old was she?" Hermione brushed back Eileen's silvery hair as the girl returned her attention to the wall. "When her mother passed?"

"One year and one day old."

"Then she was born...?" prompted Hermione, wondering if her attempts to figure out the witch's identity were too obvious.

"The first of May, 1997."

Hermione stifled a gasp. Though she'd suspected the girl's mother had been a Death Eater, and though a tiny part of her brain had considered the awful possibility, she hadn't let herself actually _believe_...

"Was it during the Final Battle, then? That she died?"

"Yes." He folded the last item of laundry and placed it on top of the pile, which he then used his wand to hover into the bedroom. "Obviously I was not a witness to her death, being incapacitated myself until I mustered the strength to apparate, but I am told she was the second-to-last casualty."

So it was confirmed then. The girl's mother was...

 _"How?"_ Hermione asked in a pained voice, though she continued stroking Eileen's hair. The girl nuzzled up against her knees, reminding her of Crookshanks. She could not bring herself to look at Severus.

"A mix of desperation and utter stupidity," he replied. "She was... enchanting... in her own way. And I needed... something."

"You dated her? Did you love her?"

"I _hated_ her," he answered in a voice so low Hermione had to strain to hear. "There was never a time I didn't feel the utmost contempt for her, for all that she was and represented. But she was willing. And I was..."

"Desperate and stupid?"

"To say the least."

"Can you be sure, though, that..." Hermione cringed, loathing herself for even asking the question. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "That she's yours?"

"Whether she is or she isn't," he said slowly. "She _is_."

Eileen, seemingly not following the conversation, crawled away from them into her tent. She emerged a moment later with Birda in one hand and his wings in the other.

"Her-nom-ah-ninny?" she asked, holding him out, her eyes watery as if she might cry. "Save Birda?"

"Her-my-oh-nee," corrected Severus.

"Hermee-nee, Birda all better?"

"I'll fix him," said Hermione charitably. "But you must never, ever hurt him like this again, or I'll send him away to live with a little girl who _will_ take proper care of him. Understand?"

Eileen's dark eyes widened fearfully, but she nodded and rushed over to hand the paper pieces to Hermione, who quickly mended the bird with her wand then reanimated him.

Eileen squealed delightedly, remembered to say thank you without prompting, and charged off after Birda as he flew down the hall. She made chirping sounds and flapped her hands as if she, too, wanted to be a bird.

"You feel differently about me now," said Severus, his voice still low. "I can sense it."

"It's just that I don't understand. How could you make a baby with a woman you claim to have hated?"

"Have you never fallen into bed with an enemy?"

"Never!" (Hermione didn't see any reason to tell him she'd only ever 'fallen into bed' with her first love, Ron.)

"You're young. Your war experiences were different from mine. I lived through two and did not have the benefit of hope and optimism during either, especially as a double-agent. Also you're..." He glanced her over the same way he had that first night they came upon each other in the ruins. "You're not what I was at twenty-one."

"Twenty-four."

"Twenty-four. I imagine you haven't any trouble finding..." He cleared his throat and she realized she hadn't heard him do it in awhile. Or perhaps she'd simply gotten so used to it, the noise no longer registered most of the time. "Bellatrix threw herself at me. She claimed she was merely in need of physical satiation, as her husband was in Azkaban and the Dark Lord had no interest in her, though she loved him." He cleared his throat again. "I can feel the judgmental scorn emanating from you, Miss Granger, but I will not deny that I found her desirable and welcomed the possibility of a regular... _arrangement._ Also – and of this you may also be too young to be fully aware – but great sex is dependent upon passion, and hate is as passionate an emotion as any. I loved Lily – I believe I will always love Lily – thus at the time I reckoned since I could not be with the woman I loved, I might as well take out my... _frustrations..._ on the woman I loathed."

"And she liked this?"

"She liked a lot of things I can't imagine you'd ever even consider engaging in."

Hermione tried to cock an eyebrow arrogantly, as he was wont to do. "Oh? I'll have you know I am a modern English woman and I know more about... about that stuff... than you might think. What was it she liked, then?"

He met her eye with one highly arched brow, her mirror image, and after a pause, answered, "Pain."

"Pain?"

"She derived pleasure from pain. She also liked to give a little, to scratch and claw and bite, but mostly, she liked to be held down, to have her hair pulled, to be left gasping and shaking with bruises and rope burns. She was not a sweet and wholesome romantic, like you must be, in need of a gentle caress. She _craved_ pain."

Hermione felt a familiar blush creeping into her cheeks and chest. She'd never really experienced pain in the bedroom, though she knew some others were into it, thanks to a few uncomfortable conversations between other witches she'd overheard while working in the Ministry. The closest she'd come to an evening of BDSM, was the night she dressed up in black lingerie and asked Ronald to spank her over his knee, having read about such things in a magazine. Far from being sexy, he hit her twice too softly for her to feel it, then missed her arse and connected with her thigh, which made her flinch, accidentally knocking her fist against his crotch, and then he'd dropped her on the floor and shortly thereafter they were both laughing too hard to get back in the mood. They'd gotten dressed and gone for ice cream instead.

 _Damn it. Damn Severus and damn the Daily Prophet._ She was, indeed, _wholesome._ She was no Bellatrix Lestrange, not in the bedroom nor anywhere else.

She wondered if he found that disappointing.

Then she scolded herself for wondering, for being so presumptuous as to assume he would even consider her in the bedroom at all.

 _Probably not,_ she reckoned, if he was into pain and saw her as... wholesome.

"You liked it? Severus, you liked inflecting this... pain?"

"With her, I liked it."

She forced herself to again meet his eye. His brows were down; he looked concerned. They stared at each other for a long moment before he moved, reaching up to brush a curly tendril away from her face.

"I have no desire to hurt you," he said softly.

And though she knew it was bonkers, she found herself leaning forward, closer to him...

-0-0-0-

He was beside himself. Fucking beside himself. Why had he told her that? Only Minerva McGonagall and his own mother knew that he and Bellatrix had a child together (assuming she was, indeed, his... assuming Narcissa was wrong).

There were others who knew about Eileen's existence, some who knew her to be his daughter, and some who knew her mother to be Bella, but none, _none_ aside from Minerva and his own dead mother – and, now, Hermione Fucking Granger – who knew the identity of both of the girl's parents.

And _why_ did he have to go and tell her Bellatrix, though a sadist in times of war, was a masochist in the bedroom? The girl was twenty...what? Twenty-four? She did _not_ need that information. She did not need to know that he had been so hard-up for a shag back then he'd quite possibly have hopped into bed with anyone! No, that wasn't true. Despite being a man of few options, he'd always been discerning when it came to sexual partners. Not only because he had standards, but because he had to keep himself safe, and any woman he might be with as well. He wouldn't endanger one by risking letting her learn to love him, nor was he interested in learning to love. That's what made Bellatrix so appealing. He didn't give two fucks if the Order got a hold of her and he knew she was in no real danger from the wrath of the Dark Lord.

He'd first had her over Easter break, 1996. He'd gone to Malfoy Manor for an early dinner as was tradition, though it hadn't been easy to escape Umbridge and the castle. Bellatrix, her husband, his brother, and the Dark Lord joined them for the awkward meal; Draco did not come home. After dessert, the Dark Lord apparated away from the Manor, destination unknown, Rodolphus and Rabanstan Lestrange took off shortly thereafter, and Bellatrix pouted over having been left behind, while Lucius and Narcissa flirted with each other over cocktails in the drawing room.

"It's lucky they found each other," Severus had said to Bellatrix as he handed her a glass of firewhiskey, which she then clinked against his own before downing half of it in one gulp. "No one else could manage either of them."

"They're both so bloody in love with themselves it's amazing they have time to be in love with each other," agreed Bellatrix. "It's positively sickening!"

But she was gazing upon her sister and brother-in-law with a look of longing and jealousy.

After over an hour of drinking and making conversation as a foursome, Severus stood to take his leave. Bellatrix, in an odd showing of good manners, offered to walk him to the apparition point on the grounds, just beyond the gates.

And it had been there, against the wrought iron fence, he'd first fucked Voldemort's mistress.

-0-0-0-

He was going to kiss her. She was certain of it. They were close... so close... and his eyes closed... and hers closed... and he was going to kiss her...

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling away at the last possible second, leaving Hermione feeling a bit like she'd woken prematurely from a dream right before a highly anticipated event was about to take place. "Eileen... it's bath night. She needs a bath. I have to... bathe her. And we can discuss the runes afterward, when she's in bed."

Hermione did not point out that he'd specifically stated the night before that he thought they should work on the mini mystery while she was awake, to avoid another 'accident' like the one they'd had in the bathtub. She merely nodded and followed him into the hall, where they found Eileen on her back, staring up at Birda, who flew in circles above her. She was humming tuneless and flicking her fingers, but her eyes never left the paper bird.

"I am glad Hermione fixed Birda for you," said Severus, startling the girl. "And you can keep playing with him... after your bath."

Eileen stood, screamed, crumbled back to the floor in a boneless heap. Severus sighed and rolled his eyes. Hermione put out a finger on which the paper bird perched and watched as Severus, a professor who had frightened dozens, perhaps even hundreds of students into submission at Hogwarts, struggled to order about a six-year-old girl.

"Get up." He halfheartedly tugged at her arm.

"No bath!" She let her silvery hair fall across her face.

"Please stand." He crouched down to her level.

"No bath!" She pushed him away.

"I'll carry you." He tried to pick her up.

"NO BATH." She swatted at his hands before rolling into the fetal position.

Severus shook his head, clearly defeated. "Very well. Perhaps tomorrow."

Eileen grinned triumphantly from her spot on the floor. "No bath."

"For the love of Merlin!" Hermione shook the bird off her finger, made her way own the hall, and lifted the girl, though it wasn't easy with all the squirming. "We need to get you past this fear of water." She did not stop moving until she had the child, still fully clothed, in the empty tub. Severus stood behind her.

"What's your plan, Mary Poppins?"

Hermione glanced back at him with a grin. "You know Mary Poppins?"

"I'm a half-blood, remember?"

"My plan is to give this child a bath without a tantrum."

"Without her throwing a tantrum, or without _you_ throwing one?"

"Both!"

Severus chortled as he sat upon the closed toilet seat, prepared to play amused spectator.

"Let's see, then."

Hermione turned the tap just slightly, so the water was dripping out. Eileen screamed and tried to scramble away, but Hermione caught her.

"It can't hurt you. See? It's just a little bit. Dripping, like rain. Do you like rain?"

Eileen did not respond.

"What frightens you most? Being submerged?"

"She doesn't know what submerged means," said Severus.

"Hush! Eileen, submerged is when something is covered in water, when it's under water. Are you afraid to be under water?"

"Afraid!" repeated Eileen in a panic.

"Then you won't be submerged. Here, just reach out – you're still dressed, I haven't begun filling the tub – just reach out and touch the water. Let it touch your skin."

"She doesn't like for water to touch her ski..."

"HUSH!" Hermione sent him a Look. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just one finger, put it out, like this... Be brave, like Birda."

Eileen copied Hermione, sticking her index finger under the drip, but as soon as the water touched her she hissed and leapt back.

"Hmm... How about this? Impervius." She tapped her wand over the girl's head. "Now try again to touch the water. Trust me!"

Eileen, to Severus' obvious surprise, allowed Hermione to guide her hand back under the faucet. This time, the water moved around her, not touching her.

"What if we do this? We use the Impervius charm on you and fill the tub – the water won't touch you – and then, when it's time to wash each body part, I'll take the charm off just that spot so we can wet a washcloth and clean you up? It'll be... magic."

Eileen cocked her head to the side. It was just like when she'd first considered the possibility of a paper bird.

"Magic," said Hermione again. "Like Birda. And if you like it better this way, I can teach your Baba the charm too."

"I know the Imperv..."

"Severus Snape, you hush right this second or get out. Eileen, you liked Birda, didn't you? I said you would. Don't you trust me? We're going to remove your clothes and start filling the tub and the water won't even touch you until you're ready. I promise."

Though she did not speak, Eileen gave her consent to this plan by starting to remove her dress. Hermione helped her off with the rest of her clothes and turned the tap, letting water into the stoppered tub. Eileen immediately tensed up, but relaxed when she realized it would not touch her. Once it was about chest high, Hermione turned the water off and asked Severus for a washcloth. She dipped it into the water, added a bit of soap, and asked for Eileen's right arm.

Tentatively, the girl put it out and let Hermione suds up her skin.

"Now," said Hermione, "To rinse, I will take the Impervius charm off just your arm, and we'll dip it quickly in the water, and then take it back out and put the charm on again. Ready? On three... One... two... three!"

Hermione worked quickly, so quickly that Eileen's arm was free of soap and back out of the water before she even seemed to have time to process what had happened. Severus couldn't help being a little impressed... maybe even more than a little. He couldn't remember the last time Eileen had gotten through a bath without tears, and soon enough, all that was left was her hair.

"Since this has been successful," said Severus. "Perhaps skip her hair for tonight?"

"No, this is a bath, and her hair needs to be washed too. Eileen, just as we've done everything else, we will dip your hair back in the water to get it wet, then once more to rinse out the shampoo." Hermione kissed Eileen on the forehead, trying to push from her mind the unpleasant knowledge that this child was born to evil Bellatrix Lestrange – if the wizarding world had taught her anything, it was that children are not their parents – and moved on to the shampooing. Eileen did close her eyes and whimper during the rinse, her hands flapping rapidly on either side of her head, but she did not scream, cry, or try to escape. Hermione then Vanished the water, asked Severus for a towel, and helped Eileen dry off.

"Twice a week for four years she's sobbed and screamed her way through bath time," said Severus, disbelief etched all over his pale face. "But here you are with an Impervius charm and a paper bird and she's _fine_?"

"Instead of catering to her, get creative." Hermione lifted Eileen from the tub, placed her on the floor, and smiled triumphantly at Severus.

"How do you know much about being a parent?"

"I know nothing of being a parent. But I know what it's like to be a girl. And, believe it or not, I hated baths when I was little, too. I hated getting my head and hair wet. I used to cry when it rained. So my mum, who didn't even have the added benefit of magic, had to get creative..." Hermione trailed off. She had restored her parents' memories a few weeks after the Final Battle, but they never quite got over their feeling of betrayal over what she'd done to them, thought they said they still loved her. They kept in touch, but... they were from different worlds.

"I have a sister, you know. She's five. She was conceived during the war, while I was on the run with Harry, and born in June of '98. Her name is Hermia. I don't know how she feels about baths."

"Up!" Eileen held up her arms to Severus, letting the towel fall. "Pick up Eileen."

He re-wrapped her and was about to oblige, but Hermione stopped him.

"Let her walk. She's a big girl."

Eileen glared at Hermione, turned back to her father, and said "Up!" again.

"Severus, come on. We'll go into the sitting room and when she's ready, she'll follow us."

She took his wrist in her hand and led him from the bathroom.

-0-0-0-

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Eileen joined them. Severus helped her into her nightdress, read her a book, and put her to bed. Then, as had become their custom, he poured wine for himself and Hermione and settled beside her to work. He had his arm on the back of the couch and when she sat back, he realized he was very near to having it around her shoulders. He did not make a move, but when her hair brushed against his hand, he twirled a lock of it around his finger, and was inwardly pleased when this elicited a shiver and half-hidden smile from her.

She was rehashing what they already knew, reading the riddle aloud, but he wasn't paying much attention. Partly because he was exhausted, thus keeping his eyes open was its own struggle, but mostly because he was thinking about all she must have done during her months on the run with Potter, how difficult it must have been keeping the dunderhead alive and figuring out clues to track down the Horcruxes Dumbledore himself hadn't even managed to find, without even having the benefit of a nearby library, still a year shy of completing her wizarding education. She was not only book-smart, well-read and a hard worker, she was naturally clever, as she'd demonstrated this evening.

And she smelled fucking delicious.

He wanted to bury his face in her untamable hair and envelop himself in the scent of her, that feminine, cherry blossom and freshly laundered sheets scent. While she read, he couldn't help closing his eyes... leaning closer to her... and maybe inhaling a little...

"Are you sniffing me?"

His eyelids shot open. She had turned her face. Her nose was mere inches from his.

"Sniffing you?" he asked innocently. At least, he hope it sounded innocent.

"You were sniffing my hair."

"Was I?"

"Don't answer everything I say with a question."

"Would I do such a thing?"

She smiled and leaned into him, cocking her head ever so slightly to the side to avoid rubbing their noses together.

"Severus Snape, be honest."

"I am always honest. I am an honest man."

"You were sniffing me."

"You smell good."

"So do you," she said, surprising him. "Like soap and cedar. Severus?"

"Yes?"

"Are you attracted to me?"

Severus hesitated before answering. Had he not just told her he was an honest man? No sense in lying now. "Is it not obvious?"

"You like the way I look?"

"Your appearance, while pleasing, is secondary."

Her eyes widened. Apparently she was not expecting that response. "Then what is it that attracts you to me?"

"Do you have to ask? You are an impressively intelligent woman, to say the least. Surely you've figured it out."

She pulled back a breath and he wondered whether she felt complimented or insulted.

"You like me for my _brain_?"

"Is that so unbelievable? I have enjoyed discovering the way your mind works, and I find our conversations... stimulating."

"Oh." She tilted her chin down and he couldn't help thinking she looked a bit doe-eyed. "We have something in common, then."

"What's that?"

"I find intelligence more than a little arousing myself."

"Curious word choice." His arm, the one that had been behind her on the couch, now made its way across her shoulders in sort of a half-hug, keeping her close. " _Arousing_."

"No more curious than your use of _stimulating_."

"I will have you know, Miss Hermione Granger, that I make it a point to choose my words carefully." ( _Fuck, no!_ his brain screamed. He had to stop. He couldn't let this continue. Not here, not now, and not with her! _And yet..._ )

"Mr. Severus Sn... Prince. Sir." Her palm rested on his thigh, just above his knee, and he couldn't help squirming at the familiar but not altogether welcome poke growing behind his trouser placard. "You realize that you're close enough to kiss me?

"Would you like for me to kiss you?" The hand around her shoulder was again playing with her hair, her delicious smelling hair, and their lips were inching ever closer. He could almost taste the wine on her breath. He wanted to taste it on her tongue.

"If I may be so bold, Severus, I would like _at least_ that."

"If you were so bold, Hermione, you would have closed the gap between us when you caught me basking in the scent of your shampoo."

"I am bold, but I am also a lady."

He shifted his weight, desperate to kiss her, but also determined not to let her know that this mere close proximity had him growing harder by the moment. He was going to need a cold shower upon her departure.

"A lady?" he asked teasingly. "A lady who says she would like 'at least' a kiss, inferring she would be open to more?"

"That depends upon what 'more' might entail." Her fingertips trailed further up his thigh. He simultaneously fought off two conflicted urges: the urge to stop her fingers from going higher, and the urge to pick her up and take her to his bed.

"Perhaps, then, just a kiss for now," he said.

His lips were so closed to hers they brushed together with each word of his last sentence. He felt it when she inhaled deeply, and he was pleased when she pressed her mouth to his rather than waiting for him. The kiss was brief, and sweet, and not at all what he was used to but he rather liked it, and when he started to pull away she reached her hand up to his cheek and stopped him.

"For now," she whispered. "I want you."

And then he captured her lips with his.


	10. Ghost

**A/N:**

 **As those who read When Sorrows Come already know, I like to switch things up once in awhile. In that fic, I wrote flashback scenes in loose verse every ten chapters. I won't be doing that here, but when Snape's flashback was too long for the overall chapter, I decided to separate it and add it to an upcoming Hermione flashback to form a new chapter, then the action continues (starting with them snogging on the couch) with chapter eleven. Hope you enjoy rather than hating me for it! Smut is fun and romance is lovely, but I just adore bringing back story and emotions and character motivations into the picture. Feel free to let me know if it takes you out of the action (and please let me know if you like it!) but either way, don't worry, it won't be a regular every-ten-chapters sort of thing. Thanks!**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN**

 **Ghost**

 ** _And no one could save her..._**

 ** _Now her ghost wheels her barrow_**

 ** _Through streets broad and narrow_**

 ** _Crying 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh'_**

 **-'Molly Malone'**

Being the darling ingénue of the Golden Trio was not at all what she wanted. In fact, she hated every minute of it. She hated the flashbulbs, the news articles, the autograph-seeking fans, the promised Tell All books written by people who weren't nearly as 'in the know' as they wanted the general public to believe.

She was glad the war was over, of course. Immensely relieved that the threat was gone and gone for good. Eternally grateful that so many of them had made it out alive, though she felt warring feelings of guilt and gratefulness to those who did not, those who gave their lives to save their world. Especially the purebloods, those who easily could have joined Voldemort and indulged in their supremacy – people like Lucius Malfoy. Those who were pureblood but still fought for others like her, Mudbloods and half-bloods, Muggle born and mixed, she felt they were owed a thank you, though Ron argued no one should be thanked for simply doing the right thing (a funny perspective from a man who certainly seemed to enjoy being praised for his decision to rejoin them in the woods when he never should've left to begin with).

After it was all over, she fell into a deep depression, one she was too ashamed to let others know about. Her parents' new baby and reaction to learning she'd obliviated them for their protection, erasing all memories of her to be restored later, cut as deeply as Bellatrix Lestrange's knife, and just as the word Mudblood would forever be in her arm, their anger and disappointment in her would forever be in her heart, despite attempts to fix their relationship later.

She cried for all of them, but tried not to do so when they were watching. The Daily Prophet had described her as an emotional girl who sobbed her way through the funerals for Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, Severus Snape, Susan Bones, Lavender Brown... Funeral after funeral, many of them for witches and wizards no older than she.

Colin Creevey, oddly, had been one of the hardest. His Muggle parents insisted upon a traditional Muggle wake. He was laid out in his coffin, his new glasses, the silver rimmed ones he'd gotten at the start of the school year, positioned carefully on his face, wearing a Muggle suit that looked too big even though it was made to fit him... He seemed so small. They'd placed his camera in the casket. During the eulogy, his brother described the camera as Colin's favorite thing. He said Colin wanted to be a published photographer someday, to travel the world taking pictures of every day witches and wizards doing "regular, everyday things" to be compiled in a book called Magic in the Mundane. "He loved absolutely everything about magic," said Dennis Creevey. "And Harry Potter was his hero."

They'd all worked together to destroy Voldemort, but it hardly felt like that mattered when Colin's mother hugged Hermione and thanked her for it, feet away from the body of her little boy, too young to fight, and certainly too young to die.

She didn't want to be the emotional basket-case the Prophet painted her as (the extraordinarily plain looking one, at that) so she made certain never to cry in public. Never to even look sad, or raise her voice, or express any emotion at all. She traveled around with a smile at the ready, even when she felt like falling apart, but not too big a smile, because the world was recovering from the aftermath of a true tragedy. She practiced in the mirror until she had perfected a small, subtle, "I'm happy to be alive but always remembering those we lost, now let's achieve world peace!" smile.

Then Rita Skeeter complained in a editorial about how her face looked the same all the time. She called it eerie and unreal.

So Hermione couldn't win, and stopped trying.

She moved in with her parents in London for awhile. They decided to return as soon as their memories were restored. But as they had a newborn baby and she wasn't permitted to have friends over, it was hardly the ideal home. She went to Grimmauld Place instead, with Harry and Ron. That didn't feel right either. And when the first of September rolled around, she made certain she was the first on board the Hogwarts Express, ready to start the seventh year she'd missed out on.

She threw herself into N.E.W.T. studies and went into Hogmeade to visit with Harry and Ron (and sometimes Neville) every weekend, as "second seventh year students" were not restricted by the same curfews and rules as regular students (like Ginny and Luna) were.

She threw herself into falling in love with Ron, too. It seemed like the right thing to do, given all they'd been through.

It was the 1999 Easter holiday when they first said "I love you."

Harry had been telling both he loved them since the war and they'd both said it back to him, but saying it to each other was entirely different.

They spent the entire day together with their friends, having brunch and talking about anything except the war and the upcoming one year anniversary of its end. No one talked about escaping Malfoy Manor the Easter holiday before. No one talked about the conspicuous absence of Order members in the house.

In the late afternoon, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione went to the Burrow for Easter dinner with the whole family... where no one talked about the fact that Molly had set Fred a place at the table, as if he might merely be running late.

Ginny stayed home for the night, per Mrs. Weasley's orders, but Ron, Hermione, and Harry returned to 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry went to bed early, claiming it was because he had to work in the morning at the Ministry, but Hermione knew it was more than that.

She and Ron went to his room, to talk privately.

And ended up in bed, as had also happened over Christmas break.

But that time they'd stopped short of giving themselves to each other.

This time, they didn't.

The sex itself was neither good nor bad. It was new, and a bit awkward, and there was some embarrassment over figuring it out together without either having experienced it before. She was trying to remember what she'd read about it in a Muggle magazine swiped from her mother's room nearly five years before, whereas he had clearly gotten advice from someone (either George or Harry, she figured) because when she suggested they try a different position to make the initiation of intercourse easier he said, "No, this is the one he said is best for the first time!" before blushing bright red over having revealed himself in this way.

While it didn't do much for her physically that first time, she enjoyed being close to him, and trying to make him feel good, and the knowledge that he was trying his best for her, and when it was done, she thanked him for being patient and gentle.

"I love you, Hermione," he'd responded. "I've loved you for years. We're meant to be, don't you think? Like Tonks and Lupin? Or Bill and Fleur? Some people are just... some people are just _right_ for each other. My mum once said, when you've met the right one, you'll know it. You'll feel something change inside you, and you'll know. Well, I know. We know."

"I love you too, Ron," she'd said. She kissed his cheek, settled beside him, and closed her eyes. He succumbed to sleep rather quickly but she lay awake for hours, replaying those words in her head.

Some people are just right for each other. You'll feel something change inside you, and you'll know.

But she hadn't felt anything change inside her.

And she did not know.

So while he slept contentedly, convinced he was with the woman meant for him, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if anything could ever be 'right' again in the world.

-0-0-0-

He'd been indifferent toward the baby – as indifferent as a reluctant father could be without being completely heartless – until she was over six months old.

It was Christmas break 1997. Most of the students who'd returned to Hogwarts after Dumbledore's death went home for the holiday and he had to get out of the school, not only for his own sanity, but under Dumbledore's orders. For reasons unexplained, he had to strategically place the Sword of Gryffindor so Potter could obtain it, in some vaguely heroic manner that would make him worthy of wielding it. He used his doe Patronus to lure him to the lake, and it worked. Good. Some small victory, he reckoned. A Christmas miracle.

He was not in a hurry to rush back to Hogwarts, to tell his master he'd completed the task like a good little errand boy forever atoning for past sins, thus he headed to the home of the man who was currently his only friend, Lucius Malfoy.

While he had genuinely liked Lucius in his younger years and didn't mind him now, he hated how sending Dumbledore to his death had destroyed his carefully cultivated relationships with his colleagues, leaving him with no other relationships intact. Minerva regarded him with suspicion and a lingering look of pain and betrayal, Fillius made it a point to show him as absolutely little respect as was absolutely necessary, Charity, shortly before her murder, had gone sobbing to Severus' chambers begging for an explanation, Poppy was not shy about distancing himself to the point of the exiting the staff room if he entered, and Pomona furiously told him after a bottle of elf-made wine one night she'd always known he wasn't the reformed man Dumbledore told them he was.

This left him with the only Death Eater he could stomach for company.

Which led him to Malfoy Manor that afternoon, the day after Christmas. Narcissa granted him entrance but apologized because her husband and son were not home.

"You're free to wait for them," she said. "In Lucius' study or the drawing room... Would you like a drink?"

"I would indeed like a drink, thank you. Is it all the same to you if I wait in the library?"

"Make yourself at home." She snapped her fingers for a house-elf.

"Flicker, get Professor Snape whatever he requests and see to it that he's comfortable."

Severus requested a firewhiskey to the library, but assured he'd need no more than that. The elf bowed deeply and disappeared.

"I don't know when Lucius will return..."

"You're worried about him."

Narcissa's eyes welled with tears. "He was in prison for a _year_ , Severus. I had to live without him for a _year_ and every bloody day hurt more than the one before. I saw what it was to live without him for a year; I couldn't do it for a lifetime. And my _son_..." Her voice cracked on that last word, which she let be the end of her sentence, as Severus understood. He almost – _almost_ – felt compelled to hug her, but as much as he valued the friendship of the Malfoys he didn't quite feel comfortable enough for such obvious displays of affection, even with her. "You don't understand what it's like, Severus. I used to feel sorry for you." She sniffled and wiped her nose most uncharacteristically on her long sleeve. "I used to think it was terribly sad that you were such a loner. I mean, I know you have your mother, but... but to be without a _woman_ , to have no _children_. Cooped up in that castle...I can't tell you how many times I talked to Lucius about trying to help you find a nice girl, but it seems none of my matchmaking attempts have done you a single bit of good."

Severus' face flushed. While his mate had indeed introduced him to a number of women over the years (beautiful, status-seeking women who would have been much more suitable for Malfoy, had he not been completely faithful to his wife) he'd had no idea this was on Narcissa's suggestion. He wondered what she'd think if she knew he'd been fucking her sister for the last twenty months.

"Now, I see things differently. Be glad you're able to live a life of solitude, and be especially glad you haven't any children. Nothing could ever be more terrifying than the possibility of losing your child."

Severus felt a sharp jab in his side and nearly glanced to the left expecting to see someone standing there with a sword, but quickly realized the feeling came from within. It was the thought of his own child dying that caused it... a child he hardly knew, a child he'd only seen a handful of times, mostly when she was asleep, one he'd never held. Not only did she not bear his name, he didn't know her name. Bellatrix called her "the baby." Most, even in the Dark Lord's inner circle, did not even know of her existence. None, save for Bella herself, knew for absolute certain the identity of the girl's father.

"I'll do as I can for Draco," said Severus, gently squeezing her arm (which seemed a decent alternative to hugging) and suppressing his upset.

"You've already done so much," she whispered. "I am eternally gratefully. As is my husband. We'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for us in June."

"I'll wait for Lucius in the library." He had to escape the conversation. He couldn't stand the way she was looking at him, the way she was thanking him, yet again, for killing Dumbledore. _If only she knew._

"When he arrives, I'll tell him you're here."

She closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. He kissed her on the temple – an act somehow less intimate than the hug he wasn't willing to give – and hurried up the hallway to the stairs.

He was on the second floor landing when he heard the cries. A baby. His baby. He paused, listening, expecting the wails to cease, but they grew only louder. Was Bellatrix unable to soothe the child? He crept toward the room he knew to be hers, the room where he'd met her countless times over the year before the child was born, to do to her what she begged him to, to hold her down and make her hurt and pleasure her, satiating both of their selfish needs, each acting without regards for the emotional well-being of the other.

He put his ear to the door. The crying continued. He could not hear Bellatrix. Only the baby. He turned the knob. The door opened to him with a simple "Alohomora."

He entered to find a frantic house-elf, pacing back and forth, muttering, as the baby – his baby – screamed and sobbed in a corner of her crib. She was nearly seven months old, with a round face and an equally found belly, a button nose, and bright red tear-stained cheeks.

Bellatrix was not present.

"Where is her mother?" demanded Severus. The house-elf jumped and flinched, expecting punishment.

"Mistress leaves baby with Twinkle. Twinkle feeds baby. Twinkle changes baby. Twinkle puts baby to bed. But... baby won't stop crying! Mistress will be angry! Mistress will be angry, but Twinkle has tried! Baby has been fed! Baby has been changed! Baby is in bed!"

"How long as Bellatrix been gone?"

"I... sir?"

"How long as Bellatrix been gone, Twinkle?" he raised his wand threateningly, though in truth he wouldn't use it on the poor, pathetic creature. "When will she return?"

"She goes most days for hours, sir! For hours she goes away! And Twinkle feeds the baby. And Twinkle changes the baby. And Twinkle..."

"I understand. Out, Twinkle."

"Ow... out, sir?"

"I will care for the baby until Bellatrix returns. You, out."

"Out, sir?"

"Out, Twinkle! You dare disobey a wizard?" He jabbed the wand in the elf's general direction. The elf leapt and squeaked.

"But my mistress..."

"I will inform your mistress of the situation. Go. Now."

Twinkle looked as though she wanted to argue, but unable to do so with a wizard, she merely nodded and disappeared with a loud crack.

Severus approached the crib. His daughter – he still didn't know her name – was sitting in the corner of the crib, wearing a black one-piece pajama set that covered her body, arms, legs, and feet. Black. The baby was dressed shoulder to toe in black. Severus liked black as much as the next sullen, snarky, antisocial academic, but on a baby it didn't quite look right. He waved his wand and turned the onesie pink. That didn't suit the girl either. He waved it again, and the one-piece became mint green. That would do.

He reached in to pick her up. The last baby he'd held had been Draco, who was now six months away from eighteen, thus it was safe to say he was out of practice. He found it easier than expected. He placed one hand on her back and positioned her bum on top of his opposite forearm. She was still crying, but not quite so hysterically now. She had the hiccups. Her nose was running. Her entire face was splotchy, her cheeks still wet with the tears.

"Accio handkerchief!"

One flew out from inside a basket atop Bellatrix's vanity. He used it to gently wipe clean his baby's face. She seemed to be calming down. Perhaps all she'd needed was to be held.

"She leaves you for hours?" he asked. Of course the baby didn't answer, but given the way her wide eyes were boring into his, he had a feeling she understood. "That is unacceptable."

She blinked twice slowly. Her lashes were long and dark, but the hair on her head was so pale it almost looked white. It was fine and short, save for a couple of curls forming at the back of her neck. He twirled one around his index finger. She couldn't be blonde, could she? Did blonde hair run in her family? Narcissa was blonde, obviously, but he always assumed that came from a bottle of Muggle dye or was the result of a well maintained glamour charm.

Her eyes were his, he thought. Not a milky chocolate brown, like those of the Black sisters. These were darker than brown, darker than the midnight sky, like ink. Like his.

She fidgeted and fussed a little. He held her closer and began to pace back and forth. He had no idea what to do with a baby. What had his mother done when he was a baby? He couldn't remember. As a little boy, though, she would sing to him, especially after the alcohol put his father to sleep each night. She would cradle him in her arms and sing the Irish songs her own mother had sung to her.

The baby in his arms whimpered and started to flail. He had a feeling the novelty of his presence was wearing off thus she was about to start wailing again.

He wasn't going to sing, but he supposed he could recite an old Irish folk song to her, as it if were a poem, and maybe bounce her a bit while they walked.

 _"In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, that's where I first met my sweet Molly Malone. She'd wheel her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, crying 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh...'"_

It worked. The baby either found it soothing or distracting, because she calmed instantly, and by the end of the second verse she was closing her eyes and slowly drifting off against his chest.

He reached the end (Molly died, now her ghost wheels her barrow) and was relieved to find the baby was sound asleep, but what to do now? Place her in the crib and walk away as if it had never happened? Call for the house-elf? Or make himself comfortable and wait for Bellatrix, then tell her off for being a deadbeat mother?

He opted for the third.

He transfigured a stool in front of her vanity into a comfortable rocking chair and sat down, cradling the girl, rubbing her back and twirling those curls around his finger. She smelled nice, like baby powder and soap, and he caught himself sniffing her hair as he recalled his mother doing with infant Draco so many years ago. He hadn't told his mother about the child. She would want to see it, to play grandmother. He couldn't allow that and wouldn't disappoint her by letting her know such a thing was both possible and impossible.

It was past nightfall when the witch finally returned. She was humming softly and tunelessly when she let herself into her bedroom. She waved her wand to light the candles in the sconces around the room, as the natural light that had been streaming through the windows when she left was long gone.

"Good evening, Bellatrix," he said, his voice void of inflection. She jumped back, turning her wand in his direction. She sighed, seemingly relieved, when she realized it was he who'd infiltrated her chambers and lowered her wand, but did not put it away.

"Snape! What are you doing here?"

Severus did not reach for his. He did not even stand.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"Out." She seemed bemused, likely thinking he had no right – nor reason – to be questioning her on her comings and goings, and unclear on why he'd even ask. "The Dark Lord needs me."

"Our child needs you."

"I left a house-elf–"

"Fuck your house-elf. She's a baby, not a bulldog. She doesn't need a house-elf; she needs a mother."

"She has a mother!" Bellatrix bristled. She tossed her hair haughtily, set her wand on the vanity, and began to unfasten her fur-lined traveling cloak. "She doesn't need you to lecture me on her behalf. I do a fine job caring for her."

"The fuck you do, you neglectful, self-serving bitch."

"Call me that again, Snape. I fucking dare you."

"And you'll what?"

"You'll find yourself on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse so fast–"

"I can block any curse you send without even lifting my wand." He rose and made his way across the room until he was glaring down his nose at her. "The child is mine, is she not?"

For half a second, Bellatrix almost looked intimidated. She shrunk back, eyes wide, and bit her lip, then abruptly became herself again, tossing her hair, jutting up her chin, the very picture of arrogance.

You know she is."

"I don't want my daughter raised by a house-elf."

"What's it to you? I told you when I found out I was pregnant, this child is mine and mine alone. I don't need your help. I don't need your–"

"Had I known you were going to birth my child only to abandon her some six months later, I never would've consented to being with you from the start."

"Consented?" She cackled. The baby twitched in his arms. Flinched, really. Even in her sleep, she could sense her mother's presence, and it was not necessarily a welcome one. "Severus Snape, you ought to be honored I even deemed you worthy of my time! Do you have any idea what some men would give for an evening with me?"

"If I remember the stories from your Hogwarts years correctly, I believe the answer to that it 'five galleons.'"

"I've never traded sex for money. You, on the other hand, would still be a virgin if Lucius hadn't paid–"

"Blast-ended skrewts do a better job rearing their young than you do," he interjected, eager to regain the upper hand before she said something truly wounding. She rolled her eyes at his jab.

"Blast-ended skrewts eat their young."

"I know."

Bellatrix swore, reached into the top drawer of her vanity, and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Original Mead. Forgoing a glass, she opened it and took a long drink. When she set it down again, she narrowed her eyes, which were full of all the fire he used to enjoy putting out by dominating her (per her request), but in this moment he felt only sickened.

"The elves said you've been out most days for hours, leaving her in their care. Even your own mother had the common decency to employ a nanny. Were there no witches with child-rearing capabilities willing to work for you?"

"You've been with her all of what, Severus Snape, eight hours?" Bellatrix sneered. "And you think you're a fucking parenting expert now, eh? I _do_ care for my child. I breastfeed her, I give her baths, I change her nappies, I wake with her in the middle of the night every fucking night. I carried her inside me for thirty-eight weeks and four days and spent fourteen hours in excruciating pain while pushing her out of my body _on my fucking own_ and you think because you spent one third of one day–"

"You'll do a better job of caring for her, Bellatrix Lestrange, or I will."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'll take her from you and raise her myself."

She appeared taken aback. Perhaps even worried. Good.

"You don't know the first thing about taking care of a baby, Snape!"

"Apparently, Bella, neither do you."

She gasped and he wondered whether he'd gone too far, but it was too late to care. He gently patted the back of the baby, who was stirring, and tried not to notice that Bellatrix looked like she might cry.

"You take that back. I am _not_ a bad mother."

"I'll take her away and you'll be lucky to have her on alternating Christmases and for two weeks during the summer."

"You can't do that!" Bellatrix's hands were trembling. She reached for her wand on the vanity. "She's mine! I am her _mother_ and I have custody of her! If you take her, it's stealing. Kidnapping. It would be a crime!"

"Drag me in front of the Wizengamot, if you must," he answered, unaffected. "I'm certain they'll be happy to hear your side before they toss you back in Azkaban."

"Now that the Dark Lord has control of the Ministry, I come and go as I please. You try to take my daughter away and the Dark Lord himself will..."

"I will be dropping in more frequently, Bellatrix. At random. And I will look for her and I will look for you and if I find her crying or screaming in the care of house-elves ..."

 _"_ _She belongs to me!"_ Bellatrix's voice wobbled the way her sister's had when imparting to Severus the pain of possibly losing her child, but he couldn't muster up any of the sympathy he'd had for Narcissa. Bellatrix added in a whisper, "She belongs to me, Severus."

"Indeed, she does." He placed the sleeping baby gently in her mother's arms. "For now."

"Get out!" A truculent tear escaped the corner of her eye and made its way down her cheek. "Get the fuck out of my room and out of my sister's home and out of my life, you greasy pathetic sniveling bat! And don't ever expect to find your way back into my bed!"

"I wouldn't take you to bed again, Bellatrix Lestrange, if I were dying of dehydration and you held control of all the world's water and would only share it with a man who satisfied you sexually."

"For what it's worth, you've _never_ satisfied me sexually." Another tear. This one landed on the baby's white-blonde hair.

"Why did you conceive and carry and birth my child, Bellatrix, if not because you wanted to be a mother?"

Her eyes filled with furious tears. Not one or two, but enough that she now resembled the baby when he'd walked in. Her pale skin was blotchy. Her nose turned pink. He'd never seen her cry before, not real tears. He found it a curious sight, but not a moving one. She balanced the baby in one arm and pointed her wand at him with the other.

"Leave. Leave now. Leave before I hex your bollocks off and you lose the ability to ever make another baby with any other woman–"

"I'm leaving," he cut her off. "But not because you've ordered me to. I'm leaving because being in your presence makes me feel physically ill."

She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could come out with anything he stormed out and slammed the door behind him. The noise must have awakened the baby because her cries again permeated the air.

"Fuck!" screamed Bellatrix. He wasn't sure if this response was to him, to the baby for waking, or just a general expression of frustration, and did not wait to find out which. He stormed off down the stairs and to the front door, where he met Lucius, who was finally returning home.

"Severus! Stay for a drink?"

"Sorry. Pressing Hogwarts business."

"Ah." Lucius looked disappointed. "New Year's Eve, perhaps?"

"Come by the school in the afternoon. We'll have a drink."

"I may need more than one," said Lucius, and it suddenly registered with Severus that the man looked like he'd been drinking all day. He was disheveled and unshaven, with bloodshot eyes. He reeked of scotch. Narcissa entered the hall then and rushed to her husband, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, and begging to know where he'd been.

Severus quickly said goodnight and hurried out to the apparition point, unable to shake off the empty feeling in his arms, to forget about the space his baby girl had, however temporarily, filled.

Bellatrix was a bad mother, of this he was certain.

But he would be a worse father.

Thus he knew that this would likely be the last he ever saw of his daughter, a child he never wanted, one whose name he still didn't know.

And for some odd reason, this hurt.

 _And no one could save her -_

 _Now her ghost wheels her barrow..._

-0-0-0-

She fought off her melancholy with every fiber of her being, battling back the darkness with as much conviction and creativity and cleverness as she'd used to keep them alive during the war, for she knew the fight was for her life, and by the time the two year anniversary of the end of the war was upon them, she was finally feeling herself again. She was in a job she did not enjoy, but it was a job fitting of a girl fresh from school, one who did not coast on her fame and name to skip up the queue, and she had her own apartment, she was having dinner with her parents and toddler sister once per week, she had a good core group of friends, and she was in love with Ron... mostly. The light was beating the darkness. Her depression was lessening. She was going to be alright.

Then she discovered the poem.

Penned by a Muggle writer named Edna St. Vincent Millay. Hermione stumbled across her work while reading her way through local library recommendations the summer after Hogwarts, hoping to broaden her overall knowledge, though it was long before she began fantasizing about running away to tour the world.

The poem spoke to her in a way that no academic writing ever had. She copied it over onto parchment with her quill and read it over and over and over again until the words were burned into her mind.

Then, she tried to forget it.

But it was back.

It had been bumping around in her mind ever since she realized she might actually be attracted to Severus Snape, retired professor, reclusive not-dead war hero and former snarky bat with a cruel streak turned doting father of a special child. She thought of it every time she tried to think about Ron and about how this was a break, only a break, and not a breakup. She thought about it every time she thought about turning their break into a breakup. She thought about it every time she asked herself why she wanted Severus to kiss her, why she wanted him to want her, and whether she really, truly wanted him.

The speaker of the poem hadn't had Hermione's experiences and vice-versa, and yet Millay perfectly encapsulated the way Hermione was feeling this fall, caught between her dying feelings for Ron and her growing feelings for Severus.

 _What my lips have kissed, and where, and why,_

 _I have forgotten, and what arms have lain_

 _Under my head till morning; but the rain_

 _If full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh_

 _Upon the glass and listen for reply,_

 _And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain_

 _For unremembered lads that not again_

 _Will turn to me at midnight with a cry._

 _Thus, in the winter stands the lonely tree,_

 _Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,_

 _Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:_

 _I cannot say what loves have come and gone,_

 _I only know that summer sang in me_

 _A little while, that in me sings no more._

The rain

Is full

Of ghosts

Tonight.

That was the line that caught her.

The rain was full of ghosts, always.

The ghosts of Lupin and Tonks, and George, and Susan and Lavender, and little Colin Creevey who'd never publish that photograph book.

The ghost of Severus Snape, which had haunted her up until he appeared in the ruins not two weeks ago.

And the ghost of Hermione Granger, who died when Harry walked to his death, but was never quite reborn the same way he was.

 _I only know that summer sang in me_

 _A little while, that in me sings no more._


	11. For Tomorrow

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

 **For Tomorrow**

 ** _And I feel it_**

 ** _And she feels it..._**

 ** _Where ya going for tomorrow?_**

 **-Stone Temple Pilots**

"This is wrong," he groaned into her hair, just before his lips found her neck. She was straddling his lap as she'd been in the bathtub and he was both desperate and unwilling to remove her from on top of him.

"I want it. I want you," she whispered, tilting her head to grant him better access to the spot below her jaw line, where he was well on his way to leaving a raised red mark on the right side of her neck.

"Hermione, this is wrong." His hands were on her hips, holding her down against him, shamelessly enjoying her weight against his growing erection. "You need to tell me to stop."

She unbuttoned his collar and the top two buttons of his soft black shirt. "I'm not telling you to stop, Severus. If you want to stop... if you... you have to... Oh!"

He was sucking at her neck... sucking too hard. There would be a second mark. Her "oh" came when he bit down lightly over the swollen pink skin. _Fuck_ , he wanted her. He wanted to do this – to explore her body with his mouth, to taste her everywhere, to pleasure her with his fingers and tongue – all night. He wanted to make her moan, to make her beg for him, to make her cry out his name... He let out a low growl, taking her neck into his mouth again, leaving a third mark. He might leave marks all over her, to claim her, to remind her that she'd been willing to give herself to him, to show the world he'd take everything she'd been willing to give. He might... he might... he might...

But no. _No_.

"Severus... Severus, yes..."

"No. This is wrong."

"Why?" She brought her hand up to the back of his neck, scraping her nails against his skin under his collar, making eye contact. Hers were wide and watery and almost gold in the flickering candlelight. "Why is it wrong if it's what we both want?"

"You're too young for me." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You don't know what you want."

"I know I want this. I want you. I want..."

"You don't."

(But _he_ did. Damn it.)

"Severus..."

"You're half my age."

(So why couldn't he stop touching her?)

His hands traveled to her outer thighs, up her knee-length skirt, against bare skin, as he couldn't help envisioning her in this position completely naked, riding him, grasping at his shoulders, shuddering as they came together. He tried to force the mental image from his mind.

"Age is but a number and nothing more," she whispered.

"You're too good for me." Unable to meet her eye, he turned his head, allowing his hair to curtain his face, as it often had during his Hogwarts years, though his hands did not move from her outer thighs. She tried to push the hair back as he had hers but he caught her wrist and held it tightly down by her side. "I mean it, Hermione. You're too good for me. You don't know who I am. You don't know the first thing about me. You don't know the terrible things I've done, the secrets I can't share, the monster I was, the criminal I still am. But _I_ know _you_. You're the quintessential Gryffindor, the brave, bookish heroine, the type to fight injustice no matter how unlikely you are to enact change, the type to look for the good in others, even when it simply isn't there. You are bright and kind and wholesome..."

She drew back with a gasp as if slapped. He forced himself to look upon her and was surprised to see the hurt in her eyes.

"You think I'm wholesome?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Are you not?"

Her nose twitched and for an awful moment he feared she might cry. He didn't understand. He hadn't thought he'd said anything offensive.

"You don't find me attractive," she said accusatorily. "That's the truth, isn't it?"

"I didn't say I don't find you attractive, I said you were–"

" _Wholesome_. I heard you. Not dark and mysterious and masochistic and alluring like Bellatrix Lestrange, is that it?" she sneered; it was an odd look on her. "I'm the girl next door, the friend, the woman good enough to save the day but not good enough to fantasize over, the disappointingly plain–"

"Stop." He placed two fingers to her lips. "I cannot imagine where you got 'disappointingly plain,' I've fantasized about you plenty, the last thing I need is another masochist, and you're infinitely more mysterious and alluring than Bellatrix Lestrange." Even as he reassured her, he was confused about why it was necessary.

"And yet you don't want me?" she murmured against his fingers, which were still on her lips. He withdrew them, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close, breathing in deeply. _Fuck_ , her hair smelled good. How could she think he didn't _want_ her? Certainly the girl couldn't have such a low sense of self-worth, to think _he_ , of all people, would be denying her for reasons that had anything to do with her looks... not that he was turned off by her personality. Quite the opposite, frankly.

"If I had as little respect for you as I did for Bellatrix, I'd have you in my bed already," he said finally. "The night I came upon you in the ruins, I wanted you physically. All through our drink and conversation, I waffled between wanting to obliviate you and wanting to proposition you. But then you fainted and..." He cleared his throat. It was the first time he'd done so since they'd started... whatever they started. It was as if the redirected blood flow from his brain on south had a positive impact on his post-attack tic but the effects were now wearing off. "As I told you the next morning, I am not in the habit of taking sexual advantage of women unable to consent."

"Had I not fainted, you would have wanted me then... but now you don't?" She placed her palm over the center of his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart beating violently and far too fast inside him. "What changed?"

"I... nothing."

"Something."

"Nothing."

"Something. Tell me."

He sighed. She was undeniably persistent. "I've started getting to know you. You're... clever. You're good with Eileen. She's... not easy. But you treat her as if she's any other child. And you've made me laugh – I find so little to laugh about these days." Carefully, after a deep sigh, he added, "I can't be with you now, because of that."

Her cheeks went pink, discernible even in the flickering candlelight, and he had to fight a smirk over having made her blush yet again. Thankfully, due to decades of practice utilizing Occlumency, he remained expressionless, despite her next words.

"You _like_ me."

"I wouldn't say I–"

"You would have taken me to bed two weeks ago because you didn't like me then but now you won't because you like me. You like me _a lot,_ don't you?"

He scowled, the urge to smirk completely dissipated. She was correct, of course, but he hated for her to know it.

"I am merely tolerating you, Miss Granger."

"Tolerating?" The pink in her cheeks remained but the Cheshire Cat grin on her face told him she now believed herself to have the upper hand. "Professor Severus Snape – Or Mister Prince, or whatever you'd like to be called – I believe it is clear that you _more than_ tolerate me." She bounced on his knees. He tried not to wince - his knees were too old for this. "Let's look over the evidence, shall we? First, I am straddling your lap and you have your hand on my bum. Second, you invited me for dinner and were willing to pretend to cook for me, to impress me. Third, you have allowed me to 'work' with you every night for two weeks, solving a mystery you've already solved. Fourth–"

"What do you...?" The tickle in his throat made him cough, a crack in his stoic facade. "What makes you think I solved it already?"

"A hunch, but your expression just confirmed it." She placed her palm against his cheek, gently stroking his face with her thumb, an action that somehow felt more intimate than her grinding against his cock minutes earlier. "I appreciate that you're letting me figure it out on my own, though. I'm enjoying the challenge. It's part of what has endeared me to you, despite our history."

"We have history?"

"You were my professor."

"Don't remind me."

"You weren't the kindest or most encouraging – in fact, you could be a complete bastard, playing favorites and outright mocking students, including me – but you were a sufficient teacher."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "High compliment."

"You can't deny it."

"I won't. I'll gladly accept 'sufficient teacher.' It's far better than what most have called me. I don't know which has been worse since the war: being vilified by those I risked my life to save, or being posthumously praised by Potter in the Prophet."

"With all that alliteration, you could be a poet." She kissed the corner of his mouth. He did not attempt to stop her. On the contrary, he closed his eyes ever-so-briefly, thinking he wouldn't mind if she did it again. "Who has vilified you? I was under the impression you died a hero. Of course, I was also under the impression you, you know, _died_."

"My godson hates me."

"You have a godson?"

"Draco. His parents forgave me for failing to disclose my true loyalties to them as they understand their lack of knowledge on the subject was tantamount to keeping all three of us alive, but Draco was bitter over having been kept in the dark. He's hated me for a number of reasons since his father was sent to Azkaban in '96. Perhaps he'll come around in time. He's young."

"He's my age."

"You're young."

"Not so young. I'm sorry he's held a grudge. I can't believe he, of all people, isn't able to understand why you did what you did."

"Do _you_ understand?"

"I do!" Her overconfidence seemed to falter at his cocked eyebrow. "I mean, I _think_ so. I'd like to."

"I've done a great many terrible things."

"You keep telling me that as if you think I'm unaware. I know what you've done."

"There's much more to it than you know. More than you could ever know."

"So tell me. Tell me who you are."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and was staring at him with such concern, such compassion, without a hint of pity, that it made him want to hold her, to tell her everything. The women he'd been with prior to Voldemort's final fall had always looked upon him with a mix of revulsion and pity, even those who threw themselves at him hoping to rise in the Death Eater ranks, and the women since, the few who knew him for who he was, were clearly interested in landing a war hero, not in him as a person – which suited him fine, since he didn't see the need to truly let anyone in anyway. The Muggle women he'd dated had been fine, but he'd had to lie to them, thus no matter how they regarded the person before them he never felt they were looking upon _him_ at all. Could he tell her? Could he reveal to her the secret he'd been carrying around for four years, the one he'd told only Minerva, the one he hadn't even revealed to his own mother?

No. No, of course not. Even if she accepted him and all he'd done despite knowing it, he couldn't saddle her with that information. It wouldn't be fair. To any of them.

"I maintain what I've said. You, Miss Hermione Granger, are far too good for me."

She gently kissed the corner of his mouth again and it took all his willpower not to turn his head enough to meet her lips with his own, especially when she added, "Severus? Perhaps I don't want to be good anymore."

-0-0-0-

Her heart beat faster than a hummingbird's wings as she drew back after kissing him. His lips were soft, softer than she would've imagined, and his hands were slightly calloused, and he smelled of soap and cedar, and though she found his insistence that she was too good for him frustrating, she also thought it to be entirely who he was – a martyr, a protector, the man willing to defy Lord Voldemort, to risk and ultimately be willing to give his life to save the son of a man he hated, not only because he loved the boy's mother, but because it was the right thing to do. She remembered how he'd stepped between her and werewolf Lupin third year without thinking, put his body between theirs and the danger, and she'd heard from witnesses during the trials that his 'battle' against Minerva had consisted of her on the offense and him merely deflecting and defending, never once trying to harm her, before he flew off. People believed him to be a coward in that moment, fleeing rather than fighting, but after all was revealed Hermione understood – he could have hurt Minerva. He could have at least tried. It would have helped his cover, if nothing else. But she was his friend and colleague and he was nothing if not loyal.

He could spend all night telling her she didn't know him, but she felt she did. She might not know all of his history or the exact circumstances surrounding the existence of his child (a child that may not even be his?) but she knew in her heart he was a good person, which is why her heart nearly burst from her chest when, after a too-long pause, he cupped her arse with one hand and her chin with the other, meeting her cinnamon brown eyes with his impossibly dark ones. She leaned slightly forward, her head tilted just enough, and he kissed her as he had earlier in the evening, another tender kiss, another kiss that sent rapid fire flutters from her stomach up into her chest and down between her legs. Her lips parted, prompting his to do the same, and this time he sucked her bottom lip, running his tongue along it. She parted her lips further and pressed back against him, welcoming his tongue into her mouth, letting it meet her own. The hand he'd placed on her arse thrust her closer to him as the unmistakable evidence of his arousal under her thigh caused a clenching between her legs. Feeling bold, she explored his mouth with her tongue, tasting his whiskey, drinking him down. He nipped at her lip and she couldn't refrain moaning in response. She never would've imagined he'd be such a capable kisser, but now she couldn't help thinking she might be content to spend the entire night snogging him on this couch; she wasn't sure she'd ever want him to stop.

"Nothing is happening between us," he said definitively as his hands slid up the back of her jumper, pulling it off, apparently forgetting how wrong he'd said this was. He tossed it aside. She kissed him again and again as he ran his hands up and down her back over the thin material of her tight tank-top, which she wore in place of a bra. His slightly rough hands came into direct contact with the skin of her upper back and squeezed her shoulders before traversing down her spine again. One hand drifted from her lower back to her ribs to her breast. She gasped as his thumb grazed over her hardened nipple. "Nothing," he groaned into her hair, continuing to caress her chest, shifting his weight, his hardness digging into her inner thigh. "Nothing is happening between us."

"Your words and your actions are sending me very different signals."

"My brain controls my words. My body is acting on its own."

"Your brain is attracted to my brain and your body is responding accordingly."

"My brain wants to stop." He drew her up so her chest was eye-level, then buried his overlarge nose between her breasts, breathing in deeply before withdrawing to place a series of feather light kisses along the top of her tank-top against her skin. She nearly whimpered at his touch. It had been so long since she'd last been touched, and even longer since she'd last been touched like _this_ , revered and desired, further solidifying her suspicion that both she and Ron had spent their last year together going through the motions.

"You're too young for me," he continued. "I would hurt you."

"I wouldn't mind. I hear some witches are into that." She grinned cheekily, prompting his eye-roll.

"I meant _emotionally_. I would destroy you. I am a broken man."

"I could fix you."

He stifled a derisive snort. "That is _precisely_ what a woman too young for me would say. Why are you throwing yourself at me?"

"Am I throwing myself at you?"

"Aren't you?"

Her brow furrowed. She sat back on his knees, studying him. His pale face was void of expression, but his eyes... she could see a vulnerability there. Was he truly afraid to hurt her? Or was he afraid she would inevitably end up hurting him?

"Throwing myself at you," she murmured, the wheels in her head turning. She _was_ throwing herself at him, wasn't she? But why? Why _him_?

Because he was familiar, like home?

Because he was forbidden, unlike Ron?

Because she didn't want to be wholesome?

Because she wanted adventure abroad?

Because she couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said about Bellatrix, about holding her down and hurting her because she liked it?

Or because he had become the man in her recurring dream about the masquerade party?

"You are unable to answer." He settled his strong hands on her hips, lifted her, and placed her beside him, like a child. "I refuse to take advantage of you."

She crossed her arms and frowned. "Well, aren't you the very picture of chivalry."

He stood, stretched, and turned to face her. Since she was now about eye-level with his waist, she couldn't _not_ notice the physical effect she'd had on him. She tried not to focus on it, not to wonder what he looked like... what he'd feel like... but she felt her skin going hot nonetheless, starting with her chest, spanning out across her shoulders and down her arms, up her neck and into her cheeks. A full-body blush, worse than before. She wouldn't be surprised if even her hair had turned red. He rebuttoned his collar and cleared his throat.

"I am going to take a shower. I expect you to be gone when I emerge."

"Am I permitted to return tomorrow?"

"If I say no, will you return anyway?"

"I'll return only if you want me to, Severus. I know better than to go where I'm not wanted. So... am I wanted?"

She stood, expecting him to back up, but because he didn't they found themselves chest to chest (well, her breasts to his lower ribs, anyway). She stared up at him, awaiting a response, any response, but hoping it would be the response she wanted to hear.

"I suppose you should return tomorrow," he answered after a long pause, with a sigh of resignation. "We still have a mystery to solve."

She opened her mouth, but before she could reply, his lips were again on hers.


	12. To Ruin

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

 **To Ruin**

 ** _A heavy cross you bear_**  
 ** _A stubborn heart remains unchanged_**  
 ** _No home, no life, no love_**  
 ** _No stranger singing in your name..._**

 ** _Long road to ruin_**  
 ** _There in your eyes_**  
 ** _Under the cold streetlights_**  
 ** _No tomorrow_**  
 ** _No dead-end in sight_**

 **-Foo Fighters**

Encouraged by the fact that his tongue and hands were now freely exploring her entire upper body, she reached up to again unbutton his collar, but she did not stop there. Button after button she liberated from its tiny hole until she was able to run her hands up and down his bare chest as she had in the tub, and he made no attempt to stop her when she pushed the material off his shoulders and let it pool on the floor.

She had no idea how far he wanted this to go... Hell, she had no idea how far _she_ wanted this to go... but she didn't want to be the one to stop first.

-0-0-0-

He had both hands on her arse, thrusting her against his pelvis, when her lips again found their way to the unsightly scar on his neck. She kissed him down the black lines that ran from it, down his chest, to his right pectoral, where she flicked out her tongue and traced up it, as if it were a line of chocolate dribbled down his front rather than the mark of a terrible curse.

"Does it not repulse you?" he asked, pausing in his own ministrations to regard her carefully. He would not call himself a vain man, but he had used a Glamour to conceal it every time he'd been with a Muggle woman post war, and he hadn't been able to avoid noticing the looks of disgust of the few witches with whom he'd been at least half-naked. They claimed to understand, called him a hero, even referred to his scars as marks of bravery or a badge of honor, but did not touch it and certainly did not run their tongues along it as she was wont to do.

He had also never been an attractive man, not by conventional standards at any rate, but the way she was studying him, the way she was touching and kissing him... she made him feel the way he imagined James and Sirius had when they were teenagers, a way he'd always wanted to feel back then, but had long given up hope of ever experiencing...

And, propriety be damned, he liked it.

-0-0-0-

In response to his question, she kissed him on the marking again, a wet kiss, and moved her mouth south to his nipple. Foreplay with Ron had been very basic, thus she wasn't quite sure what she was doing, but she had the overwhelming desire to do to him what she wanted him to do to her, and thus out darted her tongue to flick against the pink bud there, which was intersected by the black line. He breathed in sharply – it was almost a hiss – but she could tell it was a sound of surprised pleasure, so she did it again, and this time he groaned. He lifted her as he had when removing her from his lap, but this time he placed her on the back of the couch and knelt in front of her, putting his face eye-level with her chest.

"You don't understand what you're asking of me," he said as his hands moved from her hips to her breasts. "You don't know the willpower I need to keep from..."

"I am asking nothing of you," she interjected. "I am offering you myself to do with what you wish."

"You shouldn't do that."

"I want to."

"Is this what your tour of wizarding Europe has been, Miss Granger? Country to country, man to man?"

"I'll try not to be insulted by the question, Professor," she bristled.

"I've asked you not to call me Professor."

"I've asked you not to call me Miss Granger."

"My apologies." He kissed her shoulder. "Hermione."

"Apology accepted, Severus."

He said no more as he pushed up the material of her tank-top, exposing her midsection, as his lips and tongue made their way from her shoulder down to the front of her chest. He groaned as he kissed her and she arched back, wanting so much more than this, without really knowing why. His movements were erratic, frenzied, as if he couldn't get enough of her but was desperate to have her everywhere and in every way at once, and the notion of being this deeply desired had her heart racing and her sex throbbing.

He sucked briefly on her earlobe, another new experience for her, as she ran her slim fingers over the bare skin of his back, which was smooth in some places, marred in others. She could feel scarring and wondered what it looked like, whether it was black like the lines (she reckoned not, since those were smooth and these were raised). She wondered how many times he'd been tortured by Lord Voldemort or the Death Eaters, whether he'd sustained any injuries at the wands of the Order or Aurors, and, while his tongue was flattened over her hardened nipple, sucking at her through the thin material of the tank-top, she even took a second to wonder what her girlfriends would say if she admitted she suddenly found their ornery ex-professor irresistibly and inexplicably attractive.

Hermione tilted her head back as Severus knelt taller, his mouth returning to her neck, his hands on the small of her back. Was he like this in the bedroom too? Rough and quick and all over the place? She rather hoped so, for it would be entirely different than her previous experiences (though she'd only slept with Ronald, she'd done other things with other boys... a few times).

"Yes," she breathed as he slid her down from atop the back of the couch, flush against him, trapped. He thrust against her, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers, and she very nearly begged him to be inside her.

"No," he moaned into her right ear. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair on the left side of her head and kept her body pinned there between the back of the couch and his own. "You want me to be honest with you, Hermione?"

"Yes, please." Her hips jerked in a simulation of what she wanted, what she hoped he wanted too. "Yes, please, be honest."

His lips were so close to her ear they brushed against her lobe as he spoke, his voice low and deep and arousing. "I am painfully hard for you. I want you so badly it quite literally hurts. But you... I want you to understand... I want to be certain you understand what – _this_ – would entail. I need you to understand my boundaries, my rules, and the reason for them. And that requires a discussion we cannot have while otherwise... occupied... or distracted. Thus I intend to bid you goodnight and go take a cold shower, during which you will find your jumper and anything else you brought with you and apparate home."

She opened her mouth to protest but he did not let her get a word out.

"If you would like to return tomorrow – and I would very much like it if you'd return tomorrow – we can further discuss then. In the interim, keep in mind, Hermione Granger, that I am not the good person you think I am, not the war hero the Prophet wants me to be or a dark, romantic antihero prepared to patiently indulge a schoolgirl's fantasies, nor am I interesting in being the mistake you cry to your boyfriend about six months from now. Though I find you desirable – _clearly_ – you are only newly a woman while I am very much a grown man. A flawed, bitter, broken man, and it would be foolish for you to try and fix me." His no-nonsense tone was borderline intimidating. "Understand?"

"I understand," she whispered.

"I'm going to shower, you're going to leave, and if you wish to return tomorrow..."

"I intend to return tomorrow," she broke in. He smiled satisfactorily.

"Then I shall say goodnight." His lips met hers in a kiss that was not frantic, or erratic, or lust-driven. It was understated and tender and slow, and when he pulled away she felt heady and swollen and almost mesmerized. He kissed her once more, on the cheek, and stood. The front of his trousers was even more tented than before, which he made no obvious effort to conceal, and after a millisecond of eye-contact, he turned and was gone from the room so quickly she didn't even have the chance to look over his back, to see the scars. She sat for perhaps two minutes on the couch, unable to remember how to make her legs work, before she finally forced herself into a standing potion, retrieved her wand, and pulled on her jumper.

She could hear the sound of the water in the shower and felt her face going red as she pictured him in there, pleasuring himself while thinking of her. Would he do that? Would he fantasize about her while touching himself, the way she had when thinking of him? Or was he truly taking a cold shower, letting the frigidity of the water take away his desire?

Once she'd apparated home, she stripped, threw on an oversized nightshirt, and climbed into bed. The ache between her legs he'd caused during their confusing evening together had not subsided, so she closed her eyes, envisioned them back on the couch, and did to herself what she wished he'd have done instead.

-0-0-0-

He truly had intended to take a cold shower, but once he was in there all he could think about was the smooth skin of her upper thighs, the fruity taste of her tongue, and the way she'd whimpered and moaned when he'd sucked her nipple through that thin white shirt, and his painful erection became too much to bear without proper attention. He let the warm water run over him as he envisioned her on her knees before him, taking him between her lips, letting him fuck her mouth with one hand fisted in the back of her hair and the other holding him steady against the shower wall. He wanted to do so much to her, so very much to her and with her, even though even as he imagined it his brain screamed that to do so was wrong. Being able to use Occlumency as well as he could had many benefits, and one was that he was able to turn off this inner voice now, and spend a short time enjoying the fantasy before spilling himself on the floor of the shower.

And as soon as that was over, he was back to mentally berating himself for having let it go as far as it had in the first place, and for inviting her back for the next evening, and for generally being an awful person who could only bring harm to a bright and talented girl who deserved better than to be bedded by an embittered, solitary ex-potions master with terrible secrets and a poor track record when it came to women.

He'd only been out of the shower and dressed for a matter of minutes before Eileen's night-terror began. He did as he always did, held her and comforted her and waited until it was over, knowing a nightmare would follow in a few hours. He hoped he would receive a letter from Minerva soon, for he was at a loss. As the poor lamb trembled and whimpered in his arms in the rocking chair, he asked himself for the millionth time whether he'd done the right thing by taking her, but as always he reminded himself she'd be far worse off in the hell she'd been subjected to post-war. Adoption, though, might have done them both better. She could have a good family, with a mother and a father and access to the Healers and experimental magical medicine she clearly needed, though, of course, that would come with a stigma, and he couldn't guarantee she would've been treated any better by an adoptive family than she'd been by those tasked with raising her after her mother's death.

Life was full of "What-ifs," Minerva had told him years ago. "You can look back upon your past forever, questioning whether what you did was best or right or worst or wrong, but you'll never find the answers you're seeking, thus you might as well look forward instead."

He wondered how much time she spent looking back, how many years - decades, perhaps - it took her to stop questioning her past actions and blaming herself for her son's early death. She wondered how he could look upon the boy's father every day for all those years without blaming him, at least in part, for his failure to help the child in any way, to help Minerva in any way.

There was a part of him - a stupid, stupid, stupid part of him - that wanted to come clean to Hermione, to tell her everything, to gauge her reaction, to seek her advice, just to have someone close by to confide in. But what if she was revolted? What if she was furious? What if she rushed off and told the Ministry?

He couldn't deny that he wanted her, but at the same time he knew, no matter what happened between them, he couldn't keep her. And would it be worth the pain of ultimately losing her to have her for just a few moments?

"You are an old fool," he muttered as he rocked sleeping Eileen back and forth. "You are a terrible father and would make a worse lover. You could do both of them better to distance yourself from them permanently."

Eileen stirred. He held her tighter and kissed the top of her head, right over her silvery hair. When he'd taken her away, he hadn't planned to keep her, had never suspected he would grow to love her. He had remained purposely indifferent toward her from the time she was born, save for that afternoon he'd held and rocked her while awaiting Bella's return, but now that he had her, no matter how difficult it was, he knew he could never let her go.

"Baba," murmured Eileen in her sleep, shifting until her ear was against his chest, so she could hear his heartbeat. "Bad dream."

"I know. All your dreams are bad dreams." He kissed her head again, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "Mine, too, Eileen. Mine too."

-0-0-0-

Hermione no longer cared much about solving the mystery of the ancient runes in the ruins, though she was sure the curiosity would come back in time. Now she was wrapped up solving two puzzles:

1\. Eileen.

2\. Severus.

She hoped her return letter from Molly, should the Weasley matriarch write back of course, would contain some sort of clues about the child Minerva McGonagall had and lost, and that this would lead her to learning more about the troubled daughter of her would-be lover. (At least, she hoped he was her would-be lover.) And she also wanted to know what he was hiding from her, why he thought he was such a terrible person... and, quite honestly, she wanted to understand why she was so invested, why she wanted him so badly, why she couldn't get him out of her thoughts. If she hadn't known better, she'd think he'd slipped her Amortentia, given the way she was suddenly obsessive with her attraction to him. But why would he have done such a thing if not to take advantage of her physically, which he'd had ample opportunity to do? No, it was not a matter of potions or poisoning. It was rather that she felt awakened by his touch, like a woman for the first time, and not a girl.

"Newly a woman," he'd called her. Too young for him.

She wanted to prove him wrong.

But couldn't shake the notion he was probably absolutely right.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you for your patience! I am still updating about twice per week but not necessarily on Mondays and Thursdays for now. Thanks also for all of your reviews, follows, and faves. I agree that Severus is a frustrating man in this one, with his whole inner battle between good and evil, what he wants to do and what he should do thing going on, but I promise, he'll get through it! Hermione will help. (insert suggestive wink emoji here)

In between updates, if you're interested, I am writing/posting another fic, STAGES OF GRIEF, that I'd love for readers to check out. Different ships, though - Hermione with Draco and Severus with Narcissa, so it may not be your thing if you're a die-hard HGSS person. It's a more emotional fic, rated T for now, that follows Draco and Narcissa after Lucius has been executed for war crimes after the Final Battle.

I'm also expecting to have a new chapter of my Bellatrix/Voldemort fic DEVOTED TO DARKNESS up later this week, early next at the latest.

And you can expect the next chapter of ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME either Wednesday or Thursday of this week, as soon as it's been edited because finding typos after I've posted (which, somehow, still seems to happen!) drives me bananas.

Thanks again!

 **-AL**


	13. Run

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN:**

 **Run**

 ** _I would like to reach out my hand_**

 ** _I may see you, I may tell you to run_**

 **-Rusted Root**

It felt to Hermione like several days had passed in one confusing evening.

How had it happened?

He'd purchased pizza with the intention of letting her think he'd made it, presumably to impress her, and then she'd helped Eileen with the bath, which, quite honestly, she'd done in part to impress him, and then before she knew it they'd ended up practically fucking on his couch...

Alright, so they hadn't actually gone far enough for it to be considered _practically fucking_ by the standards of most adult witches, but for her, it had been a lot. Her tummy clenched as she realized she'd given her former professor a... an... an...

"Oh, Jupiter, Hermione!" she exclaimed. She punched her pillow, turned it over to the cool side, and closed her eyes, determined to get at least a few hours sleep.

She wondered if she, like Harry, had a 'saving people thing.' Because she saw him hurting, and struggling, and saw Eileen with all of her issues, and though she had no idea how, she wanted to save them, both of them.

-0-0-0-

Severus spent the entire night in the rocking chair, slowly moving back and forth, with Eileen in his arms. She had another night terror - two in one night, which was unusual - followed by a nightmare. It was, needless to say, a long and sleepless night for him.

While he rocked her, thought about the moment his life changed.

It had been over a year after the Final Battle. Because he didn't want the bulk of the wizarding world to know he'd survived, he rarely went out, except to visit Lucius and Narcissa. He was there, in the library in Malfoy Manor, when Thorfinn and Euphemia came to call rather unexpectedly. Thorfinn was newly released from Azkaban, having gotten an absurdly light sentence because he'd pretended to have been bewitched. Euphemia arrived with the girl on her hip but set her down immediately upon entering. Narcissa took them into the study for a drink, calling for Lucius, but was careful not to mention that Severus was down the hall.

He was in the middle of a most engrossing tome about the healing effects of potions made with bits of dragon (blood, scales, hearts) when she toddled in. He lowered the book and regarded her carefully.

"Where are your parents?" he asked, meaning the Rowles. She did not respond. She simply stared at him with a look of vague recognition. He glanced toward the door. Surely someone would be rushing in after her and he'd have to explain his presence... but no one came.

"You're Bella's girl," he said. She wasn't pudgy anymore, but her eyes was wide and dark and her silvery hair had grown to her shoulders. It was dirty and uncombed, her dress was ill-fitting, like something a house-elf might wear, and the rosiness was gone from her cheeks. He'd never seen a toddler look overtired before, but this one did. Her eyes were deep-set with purplish bags underneath, and she was unnaturally pale, especially considering it was summer. He beckoned her closer. She came.

"I haven't seen you since you were quite a bit smaller." He lifted her, intending to place her in his lap, but she winced upon his touch. "Did that hurt you?" Gingerly he touched his fingertips to her side. She winced again and pulled away. Glancing once more at the door, Severus flicked his wand to close it. He knelt on the carpet before the child.

"Let me see."

She closed her eyes when he pulled off her dress, leaving her in just a diaper, but she did not try to run away.

What he saw turned his stomach.

She was bruised. Not only along her entire left side, from underarm to upper thigh, but on the backs of both legs, on the back of her neck, and around her right wrist. Some of the markings were raised, red, and clearly fresh, while others had gone various stages of bluish or purplish or yellow-green.

"What are they doing to you?" he whispered, sickened and furious. He gently placed two fingers under her chin, guiding her to look at him. "Don't you speak?"

She was twenty-six months old, surely she must say _something,_ even if it were only babbling? But she made not a sound.

"Does Euphemia do this?"

She did not respond.

He sighed, frustrated, but not wanting to scare her, he said calmly, "Look at me."

She did.

And then he was inside her mind, inside her memories, seeking anything of substance, anything that would tell him how these bruises had come to be, and... Merlin forbid... whether there had been any other sort of abuses inflicted upon her.

He saw her mother most vividly. For a girl who'd lost her mother at only a year old, before she should have been able to form permanent memories, she seemed to have Bellatrix on the forefront of her brain.

What he saw almost made him feel guilty for having berated the witch about her mothering skills. He saw her cradling the baby, breastfeeding her, playing with her in the bath... this was before her fear of water developed... and even reading to her. She was reading aloud from Curses That Kill (If You're Clever Enough), but still, she was reading. He pushed deeper, into the dark recesses of her mind, into the memories she was already mentally working to suppress, despite being so small, and here he found his answers. Euphemia, grabbing her roughly by the wrist, pulling her toward the bathtub... Euphemia, smacking her on the backs of her legs with a broom handle... Euphemia, throwing her to the floor and kicking her in the side, scolding her for spilling her milk... And then he saw Thorfinn, stroking her hair, holding her in his lap, assuring her he'd take care of her when she was older.

"You're too young now," he whispered, glancing across the room at Euphemia, who was asleep on the couch. "But in twelve, thirteen years, you can be my second wife. I'll get you away from her and you can repay me by being docile in a way that bitch never managed. Would you like that?"

Before retreating from her mind, he saw one final memory... of himself, taking her from her crib, speak-singing that old Irish folksong...

The little girl blinked up at him. It occurred to Severus he still didn't even know her name, his own daughter.

"I'm your father," he said, not knowing how much she could understand. "Your mother is dead, but I'm your father..."

"Mumma."

The word was jarring, since he'd assumed from her silence that she couldn't speak at all. He forced a smile, hoping she wasn't afraid of him. She didn't seem to be.

"Yes, your mumma. She died last year, but I'm your father. Do you know what a father is?"

"Mumma?"

"No, not mumma. Do you remember your mumma?"

"Mumma." She held out her arms like she wanted him to hold her. Taking care not to touch any of the bruises, he cradled her against his chest. She closed her eyes, seemingly comforted by his embrace.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her silvery hair, rocking slightly, holding her the same way he'd held Lily after her death. He threw his robe, which was flung over teh arm of his chair, over them like a blanket, not wanting to return her to that filthy dress. "Narcissa told me you were being well cared for."

He'd asked about the girl only a couple of times over the last year, always as casually as possible, as he assumed Narcissa did not know he'd fathered her. Now he regretted not having insisted upon more information.

He held her like this for far too long. Why wasn't anyone looking for her? He didn't know much about toddlers, but he reckoned they weren't supposed to be left alone in strange places for long periods.

"Let's dress you and get you out of here."

She seemed to understand. She stood, facing him again, blank-faced. When he picked up the dress, she lifted her arms in the air, making it easy to slip it over her head.

The Muggles say, when faced with danger, a person responds in one of two ways: fight or flight. And in this moment, Severus wanted to do both. He wanted to flee, to take the girl far away from Malfoy Manor, far away from the United Kingdom, and never return, and he also wanted to confont both Thorfinn and Euphemia Rowle.

The decision was made for him when the door to the library swung open, and there was Euphemia.

"Here you are, you little rat... Oh, you're with Severus. Severus? Severus! You're not dead!" The brunette's mouth dropped open almost comically as she paled.

"No," he said, rising, wand drawn. Instinctively, the girl positioned herself behind his legs. "But you might be."

"Excuse me?"

"What have you been doing to this child?"

"What? Nothing!" Euphemia puffed up as if highly insulted. She tossed her graying brown hair and glared back at him, pulling her own wand. Narcissa came up behind her.

"Did you find Del... What's going on here?"

"That's precisely what I was hoping to learn. What is going on here, Euphemia?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the child is covered with bruises. Her hair is dirty. Her dress is threadbare. She's too thin. You've been neglecting and abusing her."

"I haven't!" Euphemia turned to Narcissa, who was expressionless. "I haven't! She's dirty because she won't let herself be washed, her dress is threadbare because she won't wear most fabrics, and the bruises... She's obstinate, she doesn't listen, and sometimes she needs to be punished! I'll not raise her to be a brat!"

"You're not raising her at all!" shouted Severus. Behind him, the little girl ducked her head and covered her face; it was a defensive pose. "You're beating her!"

"I wouldn't call it beating..."

"What's this, then?" Severus turned to the girl, lifted her dress, and showed Narcissa her black and blue left side. Narcissa breathed in through her teeth, making a hissing sound, but did not speak or approach.

"I'm raising her exactly the way my parents raised me!" snapped Euphemia. She hurried further into the room, grabbed the girl roughly by the upper arm, and pulled her away from him. "So glad to see you're not dead, Severus, now kindly mind your own damn business!" Euphemia dragged the child from the library. Severus moved to follow, but Narcissa stepped between him and the hall.

"How could you let her do that, Narcissa?" he growled, wand still drawn. "The girl is your niece!"

"Severus, you don't understand..."

"Understand what? Why aren't _you_ raising her? She was your sister's daughter, surely she..."

"I don't want her in my home."

"What?" He glared furiously down at her, but if she found him intimidating, she did not let on. "Why?"

"You don't know who her father is, Severus!"

"I... what?" This was not the response he'd expected. "Do _you?"_

"My sister... Bella wanted a baby to raise in service to the Dark Lord, so she gave him one."

"I don't follow." Severus was still absolutely livid and wanted to stalk off after Euphemia, but he couldn't deny that Narcissa's words had him curious. "Who do you think is her father?"

"Isn't it obvious? The girl isn't right, Severus. She doesn't talk or laugh like other children, didn't you notice? And she screams, sometimes all night, for no damn reason at all. She makes things explode and sets things on fire, even as a baby she was doing that, and her hair – for fuck's sake, Severus, she has silver hair! The color of unicorn blood! That's not normal!"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, she's only half-human! She's the daughter of the Dark Lord!"

"No! She isn't!"

"She is! Bellatrix told me! She's his offspring, his heir, and that's why there's something terribly wrong with her! I don't want her anywhere near my home or my family. We've had quite enough of the Dark Lord in this Manor, thank you. And if Euphemia doesn't keep her under control, who knows _what_ she might do? She's inherently evil. I can see it when I look at her, when I look into her eyes. My sister was bloody mad, that's bad enough to pass onto a child, but with that monster for a father? He wasn't even fully human when she was conceived, Severus! What does that make her?"

"He's not her father. He can't be."

"He is!" Narcissa exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "Bellatrix said he is! She was absolutely certain. And he must have believed it too because he let Bella give the girl his last name, the name that had been his mother's maiden name, Gaunt! She's wicked, Severus, she was born wicked, and frankly I don't give a fuck what they do with her, or to her, so long as it doesn't affect me, my husband, or my son!"

His mind was reeling. Could it be true? Could Bellatrix have lied to him, could the child be the Dark Lord's? Or had she lied to her sister?

"I know it must be a shock to you, to learn my sister had a baby," Narcissa went on more softly, "But don't let the girl's big eyes and sad face fool you. She's going to grow up to be just the same as her parents. A murderer, a monster, a veritable nightmare. She'll do awful things. She'll make people suffer. And I have no interest in being a part of it.

"She's a toddler, Narcissa!" He was aghast, to say the least. "You don't know _what_ she'll be when she gets older."

"She's already showing signs she's not right in the head, Severus. I'm just grateful Euphemia was willing to take her."

"What's in it for Euphemia? I doubt she's abusing this poor child out of the goodness of her heart."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "No, she's paid for it, if you must know. But Severus, why do you _care?_ This is the Dark Lord's progeny we're talking about. His and my sister's. You hated both of them. Why worry yourself about the child?"

"Because you're wrong, Narcissa."

She cackled. "Wrong? About?"

"She's not a monster. She's a toddler, a _person,_ and she deserves better."

"You raise her then, but I sure as hell won't."

Two days later, after thinking of nothing but Narcissa's last words for forty-eight straight hours, Severus called upon the Rowles without warning, prepared to offer them money to give up the child.

But what he witnessed in their home caused him to temporarily lose his head, and he'd done something terrible in response.

They'd been on the run ever since.

-0-0-0-

Hermione wanted to do something special for Eileen. She hoped the girl hadn't had another rough night and subsequently given Severus another rough day, but even if she had, Hermione wanted to bring her a little gift, something to show her she'd been thinking of her. But what?

After a rather long deliberation, she decided to transfigure the child a new cage for Birda, this one made of gilded metal, far less likely to break. She shrunk it down to the size of a biscuit and stuck it in her pocket, then apparated to the safe place in the alley near Severus' place. She hurried to their home, hoping he'd have "cooked" dinner again so they could eat together (or that they could go out, she wasn't picky) but when she arrived and knocked on the door, no one answered. She tried again, and again, and listened for screams, or anything else, but the place was dark from the outside and didn't even respond to her Alohomora.

She was turning to go, dejected and feeling foolish, when an elderly woman stepped out of the flat next door.

"You Hermione?"

"Yes." Hermione reached into her pocket to touch her wand, just in case. That year on the run had taught her the importance of Constant Vigilance, as Moody termed it... especially encounters like the one she'd had with the animated corpse of Bathilda Bagshot. "And you are?"

"April Thames Gold. I believe you know the grandson of my sister, Augusta. Name's Neville."

"Oh, yes, I know Neville." She relaxed slightly, but did not release her pocketed wand.

"I own this building. Severus lives here for free because his mother was one of my closest and dearest friends from Hogwarts. He asked that I pass this note along to you." She held out a rolled bit of parchment in her wrinkled fingers, on which she wore a number of expensive looking rings. "Here you are."

Hermione took it, thanked her, and turned to go.

"You can apparate from here," said April Thames Gold. "I do it all the time. You're hidden from view of the street and the only families who live here at the end of this street are like us. Severus should have told you, but he likes his privacy."

"Yes," said Hermione, somewhat numb. "Yes, he does. Thank you, Mrs. Gold."

Once Hermione was back in her own bedroom, she crawled under the covers and slowly unrolled the letter, completely unsure of what to expect, but unable to shake the feeling of foreboding.

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Eileen is unwell. I have had to leave Rome in order to get her the care she needs._

 _I anticipate returning within a fortnight. I apologize for this delay in your tutelage._

"Tutelage," said Hermione aloud. What was he talking about?

 _This is especially disappointing as we made significant advances as of last evening,_

 _Which we will be able to discuss further upon my return._

 _I will send a more detailed owl as soon as I am able._

 _-Mr. Prince_

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thanks, as usual, for reading and reviewing! For those seeking super smuttier stuff, I'm hoping you'll enjoy Chapter Fifteen. It's... not for kids. lol But first we have Chapter Fourteen, when Hermione receives a response letter from Molly, and maybe we'll even see where Severus is and what he's up to. Thx!

 **-AL**


	14. Searching Under Rubble

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:**

 **Searching Under Rubble**

 ** _This is my open letter,_**

 ** _This is something to remember._**

 ** _I won't be buried before my time,_**

 ** _I'm not searching for forever..._**

 ** _I've been searching under rubble from the past,_**

 ** _Just looking for a reason to make your life last._**

 **-The Amity Affliction**

She lied about her age.

She told him she was twenty-one. She told him she'd just been interviewed for a teaching position at Beauxbatons. She told him she'd gotten married at eighteen and divorced at twenty. She told him she'd grown up moving between England, where her mother was from, and her father's native France, and that neither of her parents were Muggle-born, and that she'd traveled all over Europe in her year of liberation post-divorce.

She told him her name was Gabriella Bardot.

Every damn thing she told him was a lie.

But it shouldn't have mattered. They spent one night together, one marvelous night, said farewell shortly after sunrise, and went their separate ways. She never expected to see him again.

She certainly did not expect to see him sitting at the Head Table on the first day of her Seventh Year, to the right of Headmaster Dippet, who introduced the man she'd lied to as newly appointed Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore.

"Merlin's beard," she whispered. Her hand went to her midsection, which was already started to expand under her flowing black uniform robe. She hadn't told her parents where she'd gone the night she ran away after that row they'd had while on holiday in Paris, nor did she intend to tell them what she'd accidentally brought back home to Scotland with her, though she knew eventually she wouldn't be able to hide it anymore.

She managed to avoid him for the first four days at school, but Transfiguration on Thursday meant she had to sit in his classroom, listening to directions, completing the assignment, marking down the homework, and pretending she hadn't seen the tall, slender, auburn-haired professor naked five months earlier.

"Miss McGonagall," he said, stopping by her seat while checking over students' work. "Could you stay after class a moment?"

"Certainly, Professor."

She spent the rest of class feeling sick to her stomach, and not the same sick to her stomach that had been plaguing her for the last several months.

Once everyone else had gone, he waved his hand, closing and locking the door, leaned against his desk, and regarded her with a stony glare. She stared at the blackboard behind him from her seat, her hands neatly folded on the table, and tried to keep her breathing steady.

"Mademoiselle Bardot," he began after a painstaking pause. "Imagine my surprise to find you not teaching at Beauxbatons, but here, in my classroom. Does your ex-husband know of the details of your double-life?"

"Please don't be cruel, Professor." She forced herself to meet his eye, to sit up straighter, and not to cry. "I made a mistake."

"As, apparently, did I." He glanced briefly down at her midsection. "How far along are you?"

"It's yours, if that's what you're asking. I've never been with anyone else, not ever, so it _has_ to be yours."

The corner of his eye twitched as the realization he'd not only knocked up a teenager, but a virgin at that. This was his punishment for reacting to the dissolution of his long-term same-sex relationship by experimenting with a woman he met in a bar.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"How could I?" She stifled a sniffle. "You lied to me, too. You told me your name was Wulfric Percival and that you were a philosopher, not a Transfiguration professor."

"I would have told you I'd been hired as a professor had I known you were still a student."

"I would have told you I was still a student if you'd told me you'd been hired as a professor."

"I could get fired for this." He said this calmly, matter-of-fact, but she felt guilty all the same.

"Why? You didn't know. I lied to you."

"It was all a lie, then? Everything you told me?"

"Yes."

"What was your intention? To get back at a cheating boyfriend?"

(She'd told him her divorce had been on account of her husband's infidelity.)

"No..." She nibbled her lip. "No, sir. I... I've never had a boyfriend. I'm not permitted to date. My parents are... they're very strict."

"They must be furious about this, then."

"I haven't told them."

"They didn't notice?"

"They spent the months of July and August traveling for my father's work. I was with..." Her cheeks reddened with humiliation. "I was with my governess."

He swore, turning away from her, and held the desk as if for dear life. "Governess? How old _are_ you?"

"I'm seventeen! I'm of age! But they don't trust me to stay home alone! They treat me like a child!"

He turned back. "I can't imagine why, Miss McGonagall, when you've clearly exhibited such sound judgment and unmistakable maturity." She sniffled again and he sighed, softening. "There's an orphanage in London where another magical child currently resides. I recently met the matron there. I could arrange..."

"I'm not sending my baby to an orphanage, Professor!" She stood suddenly, knocking back her chair, and faced him with a look of defiance on her face. "Out of the question!"

"Oh?" He lifted his auburn eyebrows quizzically. "You haven't even told your parents. What's your plan? Going to hide the infant in your dormitory until June then sneak it home in your trunk?"

"I don't have a plan."

"It's too late to abort it." He said this matter-of-factly too, as if the suggestion shouldn't sting. She winced, her hand going to her abdomen, wondering if the baby could hear conversations outside the womb and be forever damaged by this reaction from its father. "The orphanage is the ideal solution. You can continue at Hogwarts until you're no longer able to hide it. Then we shall say you're sick and you can go to a Muggle convent until the child is born, returning to Hogwart around February to finish your education, if you so desire – I've looked through your files. You're an excellent student, Quidditch player, former Prefect, candidate for Head Girl..."

"I asked to be dropped from the consideration for Head Girl, that's why it went to Maisie."

"Yes, I read that. You told Headmaster Dippet you were worried the added responsibilities would detract from your studies. I suppose that was another lie? You're a capable liar, Miss McGonagall, though I daresay had you been wearing your hair in braids like that when we met, I never would have believed you were twenty-one. In this lighting, with that attire, you barely look sixteen."

"I told you, I'm seventeen."

"How can I believe that? Everything you've told me in the past was a lie."

"Give me detention, then!" Her voice trembled; she sounded on the verge of tears. "Deduct House Points. Send me to the Headmaster. Make me write lines. Have me expelled. Do whatever you wish, but I'm telling you now, sir, with all due respect, I have every intention of keeping _and_ raising this baby. I don't care _how_ preferable you think life in a London orphanage would be! It's _my_ baby and _I'll_ say what happens to it! It's not any of _your_ business!"

"Not any of my business?" For the first time since the start of their conversation, he looked angry. "You lied to me. You propositioned me. You became pregnant by me. And, for the next ten months, you expect to be taught Transfiguration by me, but what happens in the future regarding the baby you've made with me is not any of my business? If your parents are as strict as you claim, why were you in that Parisian bar all alone in the middle of the night?"

"I'd run away."

"You'd run away." He echoed her gently but that didn't make the memory sting less.

"Because they were treating me like a child! They were going out that night and they'd hired an old woman to come sit with me. They even gave her a schedule that said what I could eat for dessert and when to send me to bed. It was ridiculous! I'm seventeen!"

"So you thought you'd run away..."

"And live like an adult, for one night, yes!"

"Interesting." He sat on the edge of his desk, regarding her with a mix of concern, compassion, confusion, and a touch of continued anger. "And how do you think your foray into adulthood went, overall?"

She glared truculently back him, showing him, for the first time, her fiery personality and headstrong nature, as his cool demeanor and thinly veiled attack on her maturity made a dormant anger rise within her. Snottily, she answered him.

"Honestly? I would rate it a six of ten, Professor. The wine was good but the sex was sub-par, and though the looks on my parents' faces the next morning were gratifying, all in all, I wouldn't say the experience was worth the aftermath."

And at her cheek, Albus, unable to help himself, had laughed.

-0-0-0-

Minerva McGonagall sat on the couch in the sitting room adjacent to her office, facing a crackling fire and stroking the silver hair of a sleeping Eileen Pax Prince, age six. It was late on Sunday evening. The girl and her father, Severus, had arrived in the middle of the night Friday. He was in a state of desperation. The girl had been convulsing and crying and acting as though she might be possessed and he was at a loss.

"You shouldn't have traveled with her like this!" Minerva had scolded in a loud whisper, hurrying him into her personal chambers, glad he was adept enough with disillusionment charms that no one had seen them enter the castle.

"What else could I do? I don't want her to..." He'd let the sentence hang in the air unfinished.

"I understand." Minerva had said sympathetically. "Come in. Set her down on the couch. You must be exhausted."

Now two days had passed and though it had been rejuvenating for Severus to have gotten his first good night's sleep in months the night before, thanks to Minerva's offer to stay up with Eileen, he was disappointed by her inability to offer him much more than moral support. He refilled his gillywater from the decanter on the mantle then held it up, offering more to her, but she shook her head. He returned to the arm chair diagonal from them, to the right of the fireplace.

"She's getting worse, Minerva."

"I know."

"You saw her. You were with her all last night. What do you think?"

"I think she needs help."

"I'm trying to help her. That's why I brought her to you."

"I think she needs help from people who know better than you or I do. I am teaching you the techniques I learned with my son over sixty years ago. They've made advances in the field of long-term magical maladies since then, surely."

"Have they? The Longbottoms' condition has not changed at all in the two and a half decades since they were Crucioed into insanity by Eileen's mother. The last expert in Obscurials to publish a paper was Newt Scamander, and that was in 1954."

"I know." She gazed down at the peacefully sleeping child, wishing she could simply wave her wand and relieve her of her ailments, as she failed to do for her son. "He specifically studied my Caelus when we feared his magical suppression might turn into..." She shook her head. Even after all these decades, it pained her to think about her sick little boy. "We had hope, since he'd made it to eleven, but a year later... The only decent thing Albus ever did for us was introducing us to Newt, but even _he_ couldn't change Caelus' course."

"I resent that!" called Albus from his portrait in the next room. "I also provided for you financially."

"I'll not have this fight with you tonight!" she called back. She waved her hand and the door slammed shut, though Severus could make out the man's muffled protests through the wood.

"How did you do it?" asked Severus quietly. "How did you work with him for all those years without resenting every moment? How could you consider him a friend?"

"I had no reason to expect more than friendship from him. He didn't want to be a father."

"I didn't want to be a father."

"I know," she said for the third time in under ten minutes. "But I'm proud of the job you're doing. Though I wish you'd let her be seen by someone at St. Mungo's. You wouldn't have to take her. I could. I could do it tomorrow. You stay here, where it's safe."

"And who will you say she is? She isn't exactly nondescript. If the Malfoys hear that a nonverbal silver-haired six-year-old girl has been admitted to the hospital, they'll know immediately that it's her. And if she's with you, they'll know where to find me. We can't risk it. It's too dangerous."

"Severus, dear? I don't wish to frighten you, but it may be too dangerous _not_ to risk it."

-0-0-0-

On Tuesday morning, Hermione finally received a response owl from Molly Weasley.

 _Hermione,_

 _Lovely to hear from you, dear! I hope you're learning all you hoped to and having experiences you'll not soon forget, but we miss you here, Ron especially._

 _Your question threw me, I'll be honest, as I haven't thought about Minerva's child in many, many years, but I will share with you what I know._

 _He was born around 1937 or 1938 to Minerva McGonagall, father unknown. It was quite the scandal at the time, apparently she kept the pregnancy a secret, then birthed the baby several weeks early in the Hogwarts hospital wing with the help of the school nurse and Poppy Pomfrey, then a fellow student. By the time I was at Hogwarts it had been long forgotten, however. In fact, the only reason I know about the boy at all was because I became pregnant with Bill during my seventh year. Minerva was my Head of House, as I'm sure you know. I went to her sobbing and scared once I suspected my condition. I hadn't even told Arthur yet. I expected her to reprimand me, but on the contrary, she offered me ginger biscuits, explaining that she'd developed a taste for them when experiencing morning sickness herself many years prior. I was shocked, as I hadn't known she'd ever been married. That was when she told me in confidence that she, too, had been with child at age seventeen. She even came to my home over the Easter holiday to help Arthur and me tell my brothers, as my parents had passed on a few years before, leaving Gideon and Fabien to raise me. This was in 1971._

 _Arthur, obviously, had the intention of marrying me, but Minerva convinced us to wait until the school year was concluded, as she did not wish to see me fail to finish my education as she'd failed to finish hers. This, I must say, was the greatest shock, at least as far as seventeen-year-old me was concerned. To think that she'd had to drop out of school and yet still became a professor impressed me very much at the time, even though I'd known since I was a little girl my life's ambition was to be a wife and mother. I finished school in June, we married in July, and Bill was born at the end of November._

 _I remember asking her during a discussion between the two of us alone in her office whether she'd left school to get married and if so, where her husband was now, but she said the boy's father had no interest in her. She then explained that her son – Caelus, I think his name was – was given her maiden name, and that's when she showed me an old Prophet article detailing the scandal. She claimed it no longer bothered her but I never believed that, as she kept the clipped article right there in the top left drawer of her desk, which told me she wasn't as past it as she pretended to be._

 _I asked her then, "What he was doing now?" figuring he'd be in his early thirties, and that's when she explained that he'd passed away at age twelve. I was horrified, of course, not only because it's a horrible thing for a child to die, but because I immediately worried my own offspring wouldn't make it to see thirteen either. She assured me that her son's condition, which she did not name or really explain, was an incredibly rare one, one that had to be passed down by both sides, but could lay dormant for generations. She said I should not worry over it because it was rare for more than one child to be born with that particular condition in the UK more than once a century, and since her son had it, that meant the rest of us were safe. I realized later she was likely just trying to comfort me, but I never did discover what that rare ailment was._

 _And that's all I know. I hope this helps you in your research, though I find it puzzling that it came up at all, as I assume most of our world, if they knew about the boy at all, has forgotten by now – save, of course, for Minerva herself, who, as far as I know, still spends his birthday each year by the sea. It was his favorite place._

 _Speaking of favorite places, six months and you'll be back with us! I hope you and Ron will come for dinner at the Burrow as soon as you've settled in. Harry and Ginny are here as I'm writing this, and though I haven't told them of your inquiry, I did mention I was sending you a letter – they both say hello._

 _-Molly_

"Curiouser and curiouser," mused Hermione aloud. It was difficult for her to picture formidable Professor McGonagall seventeen and pregnant, forced to drop out of school, mired in public scandal, with a newborn in her arms. To know that this condition might be genetic was a good clue, though, a place to start. Did the mystery ailment run in both the Black and Snape families? Surely not the Snapes, as he was Muggle-born and this seemed to be a decidedly magical affliction. So she needed to look into the Blacks and Princes then, and whatever Bellatrix Lestrange's mother's maiden name was.

Hermione screwed up her face, trying to picture the Black family tapestry. It had listed the Black sisters' mother's maiden name, she was sure of it. Started with a P. No, an R. Rose... Rosee... Rosier... Rosier, that was it!

Hermione summoned over parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. She began to list.

 _Rosier_

 _Prince_

 _Black_

 _McGonagall_

 _McGonagall's mother's maiden name (unknown)_

Then, as an afterthought for which she almost felt guilty, she added:

 _Gaunt_

 _Slytherin_

-0-0-0-

Severus had been hiding out at Hogwarts for several days and was growing tired of it. He wanted to return to Rome, but Eileen continued to get worse and worse. She was now so weak during the days from being up, screaming and thrashing at night, to do much more than emit whiny sounds and slurp down soup. She spoke less and less, and finally, by the one-week anniversary of their arrival, she passed through an entire day without uttering a single word.

Minerva, being Headmistress, thankfully had no classes to teach, thus she could afford to spend time with Severus and the child, but she felt it was not enough, and she was beginning to lose her patience. Not with the girl, but with Snape. The child needed help, more than Minerva could provide, and she was not going to allow the girl to die simply because Severus was afraid to be discovered.

"You don't understand!" he argued that Friday night after a particularly draining night terror. "Even if I avoid Azkaban, the Wizengamot will take her away from me!"

"You don't know that!"

"You know what I did to them!"

"But they deserved it!"

He laughed scornfully. "You think that matters? You think the Wizengamot will care? And even if, by some miracle, they do side with me and forgo punishment for my actions, I could lose her to Narcissa..."

"Narcissa does not want her."

"Or to... to someone else! They... Remember what they did to Caelus? How they insisted upon studying him, how they took him away from you for – how long did you say it was? – three months?"

"Four." Minerva settled on the settee in her office and cradled the little girl in her arms like a baby while she watched Severus pace anxiously back and forth in front of her. "Four months, one week, and two days. He was stolen right out of my arms on his eighth birthday, when they declared me 'unfit on account of age and resources,' but I was twenty-five then. I had a job, a decent flat, I didn't get into trouble. I knew the truth - they took him because they wanted to experiment on him. I wasn't even allowed to _see_ him."

"And you needed the great Albus Dumbledore, the just-returned war hero, to appeal on your behalf to get him back, didn't you? But what would I have?"

"You're a war hero in your own right."

"Some bloody war hero. A traitor to both sides, that's the way they still see me! A slithering snake, an overgrown bat, a man thought to be dead, one who deserved to have died."

"You're too hard on yourse-"

"Bloody hell, Minerva, I can't even be sure I'm her father!"

"Of course you're her father." Minerva kissed Eileen's pale forehead, on which a large bruise was forming. The girl had run herself into the corner of the desk during her fit before either of the adults could stop her. "That monster didn't have enough human left in him to create life, Severus. You know that and I know that and I'd be willing to bet the Sword of Gryffindor Bellatrix knew that too. She had a reason to lie to her sister. Why would she have lied to you?"

"I... I don't know!" He let loose a growl of frustration. "But her hair, Minerva! She looks like a fucking unicorn. Know anyone who's consumed the blood of a unicorn? I sure as hell haven't."

"My son's hair was white, Severus," she reminded him. "White. Completely without pigmentation. His hair was white and one of his eyes was red and he was most definitely _not_ the offspring of any Dark Lord. Odd coloring comes with the condition. Be grateful she has your eyes and not..." Minerva inhaled sharply. She had loved her son and thought him beautiful, but having him in public was difficult, as strangers felt the need to offer their unsolicited opinions regarding his appearance. More than once he'd been accused of being a demon, which hurt her worse than it did him, as he didn't seem to pay other people any mind.

"I could have been a Dark Lord," Albus piped up from his picture frame.

"You're not helpful," snapped Minerva.

"Fine," said Severus. He plopped down in her hard-backed wooden chair and put his head in his hands, his elbows propped up on her desk. "Take her. Keep her. Admit her to St. Mungo's. Tell them I left her to you in my suicide note. Tell them..."

"I'll do no such thing. But what I _will_ do – if you'll allow it – is contact Newt Scamander by owl tomorrow and ask him to come straight here. He's always traveling but rarely more than a week away. And in the interim, please, _please_ let me draw Poppy into our confidences. You can count on her to keep your secrets, Severus. She and I have been friends since we shared a dormitory. I would trust her with my life."

"Very well," he said, head still buried, feeling utterly defeated. Across the room, in Minerva's arms, Eileen began to stir. She stiffened, her head flopped back, and she let out a terrible scream.

"It's starting again," said Minerva unnecessarily.

"I'm ready," sighed Severus.

Eileen's eyes opened and rolled back until only the whites showed.

 _"My Lord!"_ the child whispered harshly, in a voice not entirely her own. _"I'd like to volunteer for the task. I want to kill the boy!"_

-0-0-0-

Hermione had to leave Rome. She wasn't going to find the answers to any of her questions here. But she couldn't leave for long, obviously, not if Severus was going to return in a fortnight. She couldn't explain it, but she felt she simply _had_ to be there when they returned.

It was silly, since she'd only recently started getting to know him as a person, but she missed him like they'd been friends all her life. She was worried about him and worried about Eileen. She had fired off a letter to Andromeda Tonks shortly after she'd finished reading Molly's response. She wanted to know if the woman could send her a copy of the Black family tree as on the tapestry, but with all the 'blood traitors' singed off, that might not be as helpful as she was hoping it would be. In the same letter, she asked Andromeda if she had any information about the Rosiers, saying it was imperative for her research, and promising she would explain more fully upon her return. She hoped the fact that she'd babysat for little Teddy several dozen times in the last couple of years would compel the woman to work with her, as she did not want to even imagine trying to extract the same information from Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione also sent away for a book about Slytherin's male line, printed in 1901. She hoped it would reveal how the Gaunts came to be. Obviously a witch from the founder's family must have married into that presumably pureblood family, hopefully prior to the tome's publication.

But she had no idea where to begin with the Princes, McGonagalls, and Rosiers.

And she also had no idea whether this was even worth her time. Madness was prevalent in many a pureblood family, and though she did not think Eileen qualified in the same way Merope Gaunt's brother did, it was possible that someone with her particular difficulties would have been scrubbed from the family tree or labeled insane and locked away, especially a century ago or more.

She sent another letter, this one to Luna, who had met a man named Rolf Scamander a few weeks before Hermione took off on her trip. She wondered if they were still in contact. Assuming his grandfather was still alive, Hermione was hoping she might be able to forge a connection with him, as he'd once been a leader in the field of Obscurial study, at a time when most thought it wasn't worth studying (it seemed to be even less studied now, as there had been no documented Obscurials anywhere in the world more recently than the early 1960s, and none in the UK for far longer). That she knew from prior, unrelated research.

Though she felt a smidgen guilty over it, as if she was using the girl, this quest to unpack the puzzle of Eileen's condition had Hermione feeling more useful and productive and academic and _alive_ than she had in years. It was even more invigorating than trying to solve the mystery of the Ancient Runes, which she'd get around to eventually, she reckoned.

And though she also felt guilty over it, she continued to think inappropriate thoughts about Severus Snape – no, Prince – before bed each night, not to mention several other times throughout the day. Her attraction to him was almost narcissistic. He was her equal in wits and intelligence, capable of challenging and teaching her while also learning from her, and he was what she'd wanted to be leading up to her departure – aloof, independent, mysterious, dark... and far, far, far from wholesome.

* * *

 **A/N:**

So... lots of background info and set-up in this (long) chapter. Hope you don't mind! Some smut coming up soon, so maybe that'll off-set the lack of lemons here - lol. Thanks as always for reading and reviewing! To answer Qs, or, more accurately, not to answer them yet, I promise you'll find out what Snape did to the Rowles and why in a subsequent chapter. Note that I subtracted twenty years from Albus' age and also subtracted about 5 from Molly's. Thx again!

 **-AL**


	15. But A Memory

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN:**

 **But a Memory**

 **Out here it's like I'm someone else,**  
 **I thought that maybe I could find myself...**  
 **Won't take nothing but a memory...**

 **-Miranda Lambert**

"Hermione Granger?" Minerva looked surprised and, yet, not quite surprised. She and Severus were in the middle of one of their regular late night chats, which had become their routine since his unexpected arrival at Hogwarts. She mulled over both his question and the identity of the object of his affection, finally adding, "Yes, I can see why you might have an interest in her. Have you... acted upon this?"

"She's too young for you!" called Albus from his portrait. Minerva sent him a sharp look.

"You're one to talk about 'too young.' How old was I?"

"Twenty-one, I thought."

"Still too young for you! Miss Granger is an adult."

"You were an adult!"

"She's long out of school."

"I thought you were teaching in a school!"

"I'm not fighting with you tonight, Albus Dumbledore." She waved her wand and a curtain appeared across Albus' portrait. "He can't hear or see through it, which he hates. Serves him right for meddling. Now..." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk, and surveying Severus across it as if he were a student in need of career advice. "Back to Miss Granger. Have you acted upon...?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"She kissed me." He did not meet her eye, which told her this was an understatement.

"She kissed you?"

"I did not ask her to, nor was I expecting it." He cleared his throat, but it was as much because he was uncomfortable with this conversation as because he physically had to. He half-wished he hadn't confessed the young witch's name, but after he brought up the difficulties of dating while caring for a special child, Minerva had specifically asked him whether he was seeing anyone, and, truthfully, he wanted an outside opinion regarding his growing... whatever-it-was... with her.

"She's not a child, Severus. She's one of the most mature young ladies I know. But your situation would be difficult for a witch of _any_ age. Before you let her get too attached to you _or_ to Eileen, you need to decide for yourself what you want from her, and then be completely up front so she has all of the necessary information before she can decide whether she wishes to... engage. If it's merely a fling you seek..." Minerva was trying to phrase this delicately. "Perhaps another woman would be better suited for you."

"There could never be anything between us," said Severus sullenly. She was right, _of course_ she was right, he'd known that all along, he simply hadn't wanted to accept it. He couldn't have 'just a fling' with Hermione Granger... and he was not interested in more. He couldn't see himself ruining her life by sucking her too deeply into his, after all. "It was a mistake to even entertain the possibility of a friendship, let along something... more."

"You need friends, Severus." Minerva opened a tin of ginger newts, took two, and pushed the container across the desk toward him. "No one wants to go through life alone."

"I'm not alone. I'm never alone." He glanced down at the tiny figure in his arms. The bruising on her forehead was healing, but she had fresh scratches down the sides of her face, self-inflicted, which had prompted Poppy to insist upon cutting her fingernails, even though she thrashed and screamed through the process. She'd been punching herself in the thighs lately too, and had a purplish mark on her arm where she'd bit herself.

"I know what it is to be alone, but not alone." Minerva's eyes misted. "When my son was her age, I was twenty-three. I'd been disowned by my parents and expelled from school, ostracized by the girls I'd shared a dormitory with all those years, shunned by the greater magical community. I worked as a barmaid at the Muggle inn where we lived, and I didn't have a friend in the world, not even Poppy, as she was off studying. I thought I was fine with it. I thought all I needed was myself and my son. I didn't have friends and I didn't date and I thought it best that way. But I was wrong." She dropped her voice to a whisper, even though the cloth was still over Dumbledore's portrait. "I _hated_ Albus during those years. The war was raging and everyone was asking him to become our savior, but he was too busy being the most popular Professor at Hogwarts. Even those in the Ministry believed him the only wizard powerful enough to defeat Grindelwald. Every night at work I'd hear him being lauded and revered by those who wanted him for a hero, and I'd think, how can he save the wizarding world when he can't even help his own son?"

"He should have done better by you."

"He owed us nothing. But I was bitter."

"You had reason to be bitter."

It was the middle of the night. Eileen had exhausted herself after another night-terror and was now sleeping peacefully in Severus' arms, but both he and Minerva knew it wouldn't last. The nightmares would wake her soon. Thankfully, Newt Scamander had agreed to come and was due to arrive in a matter of hours. Meanwhile, Minerva had asked Fillius Flitwick to take basic command of the school and to inform staff and students she was ill, but would surely recover soon. Only Poppy Pomfrey knew the truth. She'd been to see Eileen every day since Minerva introduced them.

"You had the right to be bitter, Minerva," Severus reiterated. "He _did_ owe you."

"No. I can't blame him for being who he was. He never wanted a child. _I_ was the one who insisted upon bringing one into this world, who decided to keep him and care for him even though I knew he might be better off adopted by a family who could properly provide for him. Albus never led me on or lied to me about his intended lack of involvement. But that reality did little to lessen my pain. I wish I hadn't gone through it alone."

"I can't ask Hermione Granger, a twenty-four year old academic genius on sabbatical from the Ministry, a girl with a boyfriend 'on break,' a bloody former student and war hero actually _deserving_ of her good reputation, to give up everything to keep company an ornery old man with a stolen challenging child who may have actually been fathered by the most murderous dark wizard of all time. Eileen was born to a mad sadist who once tormented Miss Granger, resulting years of post-traumatic-stress, don't forget. "

Hermione was not the only one who'd spent their time apart researching. Severus had made it a point to find out more about _her,_ too. While her life was seemingly calm and dull now, apparently she'd had an exceptionally difficult time during the first year after the war, during which she'd restored her parents' memories, testified in front of the Wizengamot multiple times, suffered a semi-public breakdown, spent two weeks in St. Mungo's under a mental health watch, and had to undergo subsequent therapy, none of which she'd mentioned to him.

"That was _years_ ago. She's much better now."

"Are you trying to convince me to marry her or never see her again?" snapped Severus. "You're sending mixed signals."

"I'm trying to remind you to be smart about the situation. Be up-front with her. But if you like her, and you think she likes you, give her a chance."

"If I'm being smart about the situation I'll stay far away from her."

Minerva sighed. "I hate to agree with you, but considering..."

"Considering...?"

"Considering how unwilling you are to even entertain the notion of rejoining the land of the living. Severus, I wish you'd come out of hiding. Tell the world you're alive. Tell them what you did and why. I don't think the punishment will be as–"

"I am a murderer, Minerva."

"That vile woman–"

"No one will care how vile she was! They will throw me in Azkaban and take my child."

"Tell Hermione." Minerva stood, stretched, and moved to the small table by the window, on which there were glasses and a pitcher of gillywater. "Tell her what you did and why. See how she reacts. I guarantee she won't find you at fault."

"She is not the Wizengamot."

"No, but telling her would be a start."

"I don't understand you, Minerva!" He was growing impatient. "You want me with her or not with her?"

"I want you happy, Severus. You deserve a little happiness. Your life has been greatly devoid of it. You had a rotten childhood..."

"Don't remind me."

"Then that business with Lily as a student."

"I like the reminder of that even less."

"What you went through during the first war and again during the second..."

"I deserved any pain I suffered."

She turned back from the table, a full glass in each hand. "Miss Hermione Granger is a brilliant young woman who was wasting away her talents in that dead-end Ministry job and, if I'm being completely frank, she's wasting her time with a beau like Mr. Ronald Weasley. Not that I dislike the boy, don't misunderstand, but she needs someone... Miss Granger reminds me a bit of myself. She's academic and driven, with an innate thirst for knowledge and the need to be challenged. Not the sort of young woman who could be happy with a Ronald Weasley-type, with no offense to him intended. I could, however, imagine the two of you fitting quite well together."

"She reminds you of you and you think she'd do well with me?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Professor McGonagall, are you trying to confess that you _fancy_ me?"

"Awfully cheeky for a man who depends upon my willingness to keep the child in my chambers every other night so he can sleep."

He chuckled and held his hands up as if in surrender. "I take it back."

"Why do you suppose she kissed you?" She handed him a glass before returning to her desk chair.

"Boredom? Curiosity? Pity? To appease the overactive libido of a twenty-something? How the hell should I know?"

Minerva shook her head, her lips together in a thin line. "Just tell her, Severus. Give her a chance."

"Let's talk about something else." He downed the entire glass of gillywater in two long gulps. "I regret having brought it up."

Minerva had just opened her mouth to change topics when Eileen twitched, flinched, and began to cry. She was waking up from a nightmare.

She needed her father.

-0-0-0-

Hermione was going stir-crazy. She didn't want to solve the silly myth of the ancient ruins without Severus even though she knew he'd already solved it because it felt somehow... wrong. She had no further information to go on regarding Obscurials that might help with Eileen, not had she managed much when she'd dug into the Prince, McGonagall, and Black family names, hoping to find others with the child's strange affliction. She had no idea when Severus would return but already a fortnight had passed. And she was due to head to another country soon, but had made absolutely no travel arrangements.

So she wandered around Rome as a Muggle tourist would, and then she apparated to Pompeii to spend a couple of days, and from there to Anzio, on the water, and then to Vatican City, and finally Naples and Tuscany. She'd been all over Italy, but she'd learned nothing she could take back to the Ministry after her year was up and she was starting to worry Severus Snape and his mysterious daughter would never return. She popped back by their rented flat every other evening or so, just to check, but nothing, and she hadn't even come upon the sister of Neville's grandmother again. It was a week before Halloween and she felt utterly lost.

-0-0-0-

Newt Scamander was en route to Hogwarts when he received a letter from his grandson, explaining that his new friend had a good friend who had an older friend who had a small child in danger of becoming an Obscurial, and they were in need of information, perhaps even intervention. He frowned at the parchment.

"Two Obscurials in Europe, all of a sudden, after all these years?"

"What's that?" asked his wife, Porpentina. She was reading beside him in bed at the inn where they were spending the night before continuing on to the castle. At their ages, both just over a hundred, they could no longer make long journeys as quickly as they used to. They needed time to stop and rest.

"Nothing, Tina." He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and slipped the folder letter into the back of his own reading material, intending to use it as a bookmark.

"Well, that's the end of my chapter." She closed hers, set it on the nightstand, and kissed his cheek has he had hers. "I'm going to sleep now but you can keep the light on."

"It's alright." He closed the book and waved his hand, extinguishing the light. "We have a long day tomorrow."

-0-0-0-

It was the night before Halloween, and Severus was exhausted.

He tucked sleeping Eileen into the bed in her tent still wearing her dress, kicked off his shoes, and flopped back onto the couch is his rented flat. His mind was still buzzing and spinning with all of the information gleaned from Newt Scamander during his assessment and from Poppy Pomfrey, who had done a bit of surreptitious research of her own, and from his many, many intimate conversations with Minerva, possibly the only person alive to know firsthand what he was going through.

He groaned and considered summoning over the bottle of whiskey he'd left in the kitchen, but this being their first night home and alone in awhile, succumbing to the sedative effects of alcohol seemed like a particularly bad idea. He swore aloud instead.

It didn't seem fair that a child should suffer as his was suffering, and if he had the energy left, he'd be screaming and cursing the world for the rotten hand she'd been dealt. It wasn't bad enough to have been born to Bellatrix Lestrange...

A knock at the door startled him. He forced himself to rise, to stretch, and to head down the hall to answer it, even though his body wanted nothing more than to give up and give out.

"Miss Granger," he said, looking over the woman on his doorstep who seemed shocked to see him. She was wearing a dark orange jumper and jeans, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. Despite his need for sleep, she was a welcome sight.

"Sir! Severus! I... I checked every few days, but you hadn't returned, and I thought..."

"Come in, please." Part of him wanted to turn her away, turn her away _now,_ maybe even Obliviate her as he should have done from the start, but a more insistent part of him wanted to do as Minerva suggested, to sit her down and tell her everything, to gauge her reaction... to discern whether there might truly be the chance for something there.

"Where's Eileen?" whispered Hermione. "Is she... alright?"

"She is asleep. Thanks to the pioneering efforts of Newt Scamander, she has slept through the night three nights in a row. We are hoping to make it four."

"Newt Scamander?" Hermione went pink-cheeked and Severus almost smiled at it. "He... did you... did he...?"

"Minerva sent for him. Upon his arrival, imagine my surprise when he casually mentioned he'd also received a letter from a witch in Rome worrying about a potential Obscurial child here. Girl. Age six."

"I... I didn't... I was only..."

"I appreciate your attempted assistance, Hermione."

The liquidy way he said her name made goose bumps rise up on her arms and the back of her neck. At his urging, she settled beside him on the couch, trying not to think about the last night they'd been here, about a month ago, when he'd kissed her and touched her and thrust against her and made her weak with need for him. The pink in her cheeks deepened to a molten red.

He quickly filled her in on the reason he'd left with Eileen, how badly her condition had deteriorated, how disturbing the things she was saying mid-fit had become, and the ways she was hurting herself. He told her that this probably brief remission was thanks to the combined efforts of Scamander, Pomfrey, and Minerva McGonagall. And he told her he would like to tell her what they thought of her condition, and how to continue helping her, but first there was another discussion to be had...

"I told you that night that I would tell you the truth and I will. If you believe you're willing and able to hear it?"

"I am," she whispered anxiously. She gone over the possibilities of this dark secret countless times in her head since they last saw each other.

"I have done a terrible thing, Miss... Hermione. I am on the run for a reason. I do not know if I am suspected of having committed the crime I did as most believe me to be dead, but if I were to return, especially with the child in tow, it would raise questions, and then I would surely be charged and found guilty of my crimes."

"What crimes?"

"Would you like a drink?" Suddenly, he did feel he had both the energy and the wherewithal to handle a whiskey or two. Without awaiting her response, he summoned in the bottle and two glasses.

"Not whiskey," she said, pulling a face. "Gillywater or Butterbeer?"

He waved his wand again, this time to Accio in a Butterbeer. He took his time opening it for her before pouring his whiskey and setting down the bottle, then took a long, slow sip.

"Are you stalling?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"Severus," she turned toward him, concern evident in her expression, and place a hand gently on top of his knee. "I find that the anticipation of something is typically worse than the actual experience of it. You're worried about telling me because you don't know how I'll respond, but if you don't tell me, you'll never know how I'll respond, thus making things harder on yourself. So just tell me and let me respond."

So he told her.

He first gave her a bit more background about his affair with Bellatrix and about their daughter, admitted he didn't even know her name and eventually named her himself, when she was over two years old. He told her about seeing her for the first time since she was a baby in the library of Malfoy Manor, about the bruises inflicted by Euphemia, and his worries she would grow up to be abused by Thorfinn. And he even told her what Narcissa had said about her being the Dark Lord's daughter, barely human, a veritable plague on their world better off removed from it.

Hermione gasped, glanced toward the tent, then whispered, "No, it's not possible. She has your eyes," which made his chest constrict in a most uncomfortable way, as he battled back the urge to hug and thank her for those simple words.

And then he told her what he'd done.

"For weeks, it bothered me. I couldn't get the image of her out of my mind, with those black and blue marks, those tired eyes, unable to speak except to say 'Mumma.' The filthy dress, the tangled hair... She wasn't being properly care for, plain and simple. And as much as I knew I'd be no better as a parent, I knew I couldn't leave her there. Not even if she was the daughter of the Dark Lord. Not even if she was the offspring of two sadists, two _monsters,_ destined to grow up to be exactly like them, I still couldn't leave her there, because she was two years old and frightened and deserved better. And I kept thinking about what I'd seen in her mind, the memories of Bellatrix loving and caring for her and how she clung to those memories, and when I was in her head I could feel how safe she'd felt when I'd held her and sung her that old Irish song when she was a baby, and the guilt... I did it out of guilt more than anything else. More than love or a sense of duty or decency. I felt guilty because I knew how badly she was being abused and I was doing nothing about it. So I decided to do something about it."

He finished his second whiskey and refilled the glass. Hermione set her empty Butterbeer bottle on the floor and took his hands in hers, gazing at him with rapt attention. His eyes were seeing something far away, and when Hermione closed hers, she could see it too.

-0-0-0-

"Hello?" Severus knocked again. No answer. He tried the knob. Locked.

It was a modest sized home. Not exactly well-kept, but not overly rundown. The Rowles were not rich. No wonder they'd been willing to take the child for money. Neither of them currently worked and neither of them had much in the terms of family inheritance to rely on. Like many formerly upstanding pureblood families, their galleons had been largely squandered generations ago. Severus knocked again then pressed his ear to the door.

"You bitch!" Thorfinn was shouting. "How dare you!"

"Keep out!" Euphemia screeched back. "I'll do it myself. I don't want you in here. The way you look at her..."

"Is in your head, you sick bloody slattern!"

"Out!" she shouted again, and a door slammed.

Severus took this as his cue to enter without permission. He used Alohomora to open the door but came in silently, worried about what he'd stumble upon. He saw Thorfinn first. The man was in the kitchen, bent over an ice box, blood dripping from his nose. He did not see Severus.

Severus was about to address him when a scream and a splash drew his attention down the hall to a door, the only one opened a crack, from which light was streaming out into the dark hall. Severus walked quickly, quietly, and purposefully, pushed the door open more, and was shocked into stopping.

"Bite me again, you little monster, and I'll rip out your teeth!" Euphemia was snarling. She had the tiny silver-haired toddler by the back of the head. The girl was sitting in a bathtub full of water, her cheeks wet from tears, struggling to breathe. There was a mark on Euphemia's outer forearm, clearly made by tiny teeth. The child flailed, smacking Euphemia on her arm, but was clearly doing so out of panic, not malice. Furiously, with the hand in the girl's hair, Euphemia splashed the face of the child into the bathwater, holding it under for what felt, to Severus, like an eternity... but he couldn't save her. He couldn't move. Finally Euphemia drew her back up. "And don't hit me either! Understand?"

The child sputtered, struggled, and started to sob, but did not answer. She was coughing, a wet sounding cough, and snot ran down from her nose.

"Say 'Yes, Miss Euphemia' or it's back into the water!" She started to push the girl's face back down.

"Ah!" screamed the child as her eyes met Severus'. That shocked him out of his stupor. He rushed forward, grabbed kneeling Euphemia by the back of her own hair, and yanked her to her feet.

"What... Ouch! Thor... Severus?"

"Are you trying to drown this child?" he growled, rage like he'd never known filling him from head to foot. He was trembling with anger, so much so literal heat was radiating out from his hands.

"She needs to learn! She bit me! And she's fine!" She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. "She knows I'll always let her back up!"

"You do this to her often?"

"To control her! To teach her to behave! She's always awful. She hates it when I do her bath! She tolerates Thorfinn better, but he takes too long washing her in certain pla..."

Severus shoved the woman back, reached for the shaking, shivering child, and lifted her from the tub. He held her to his chest, not caring that his frock coat was now soaked straight through.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to the girl, his heart splintering in his chest. He should have taken her away weeks ago, when he saw the bruises. Hell, he should have claimed her immediately upon his recovery after the war! "You'll never understand how sorry I am."

"Why do you care, Severus? Didn't Narcissa tell you, she's hardly human? Her father was You-Know-Who and her mother was his whore, Bellatrix! If I wasn't being paid to raise the little wretch, if Thorfinn wasn't so adamant we keep her around, I'd have let her bloody drown the first time I had her in the tu–"

He drew his wand and held it under Euphemia's chin. "I am taking the child. You'll not see her again." He stood the naked, dripping girl on the closed toilet seat, reached for a towel, and wrapped her hair and body in it like a traveling cloak before picking her up again.

"You can't do that! Narcissa and Rodolphus have entrusted her to us. They pay us. She's ours."

"The fuck she is!"

"She's ours to do with whatever we'd like!" Euphemia grabbed for her, trying to wrestle the girl from Severus' arms. "Thorfinn!" she screamed. "Thorfinn, get in here!"

"Let her go!"

"THORFINN!"

The man burst into the bathroom. As he did, Severus succeeded in pushing Euphemia away from the girl. She stumbled backward, lost her balance, and hit her head on the corner of the marble sink. She fell to the floor. Blood pooled from her head wound.

She ceased to move.

"What... Severus? Euphemia?" Thorfinn rushed to his wife's side, crouching down on the tile floor. Severus, horrified, back up toward the tub. The child clung to him, crying, shaking and shivering, her wet hair soaking the towel in which she was wrapped.

Thorfinn touched the gash in the back of Euphemia's head. He shook her. He felt her neck for a pulse. He placed his hand over her chest, to test if it was rising and falling.

"She's dead," he said in a clear state of shock. "My wife is dead. You killed her! You killed my wife! You killed her so you could kidnap our child!"

"No!" Severus was sickened by this sight. He hated the woman, he hated what she'd done to the girl (who was as bruised and battered looking as she'd been weeks before), but he hadn't meant to _kill_ her. He didn't mean for her to _die._

"You killed my wife!" Thorfinn, wand at the ready, lunged toward Severus, who leapt back, realizing a second too late he'd dropped his own wand in the scuffle.

"Accio, girl!" shouted Thorfinn, and then she was wrenched from Severus' arms, flying toward the vile man who intended to someday make her his child bride.

"No!"

He ducked Thorfinn's Stupify and his Cruciatus Curse. He tried to get closer, but the man kept moving. The bathroom wasn't overly large, but Severus had to keep jumping and ducking to avoid jinxes and hexes. Suddenly, the girl shrieked, throwing out her hand, and the mirror over the sink exploded, sending shards of glass in all directions. The diversion came at a perfect time. Severus lunged for Thorfinn and managed to grasp his wrist, the wrist of his wand hand. Thorfinn continued to struggle shouting curses and hexes and jinxes that bounced off the walls, narrowly missing hitting any of them. Then Thorfinn was able to kick Severus in the knee, forcing him to stumble back. He put the wand's tip to the girl's temple.

"Make another move and I'll use the Killing Curse on her," he said coldly. "Do her as you've done my wife. Got it?"

Severus, slowly, nodded.

"Now, I'm going to put you in a full body bind, and then send for the authorities, and I'm going to tell the Aurors who respond that you faked your death, tried to kidnap my child, and murdered my wife. They're going to wonder what interest you have in her, Snape. So what is it? Is this the only way you can get a woman? Lily Potter didn't want you, everyone knows that now, so you reckon the only way to find yourself a wife is to raise one up for yourself? Well, you'll have to find another child. This one is mine. Or is it that she's the daughter of the Dark Lord? You want to do way with her before she can rise as he did? Or maybe you want her to rise as he did, to help you take over the Wizarding world? I never believed that rubbish about you being reformed and defecting. You played both sides to ensure you could come out on top no matter who won, didn't you?"

Severus, breathing heavy, glanced around the room trying to figure a way out of this mess, any way that didn't involve further traumatizing the child or being sent to Azkaban. As long as Thorfinn was still talking, he had time to think.

"Yes, that's it. I want to bring back the Dark Lord. I thought using his child would be the only way. The child of the Dark Lord and his most loyal follower. Why don't... why don't we do it together? I have no... no romantic interest in her future, so you can have her for your bride." It repulsed him to even utter those words. "I care only about restoring the Dark Lord to power, or, if that is impossible, ensuring his heir succeed where he failed..."

"How can I trust you? You've just murdered my wife!"

"It was an accident, she fell."

"An accident? How can I believe that?" Thorfinn glared at him. The girl in his arms stared at Severus with wide, frightened eyes, and thanks to Legilimency he could hear her in his head, begging him for help, even though the thoughts presented as _feelings_ rather than words. He needed to do something. He needed to act. But his magic was rusty. He'd hardly used it since the war. Could he manage a non-verbal, wandless Stupify or Expelliarmus? He'd have to try.

"Why do you want to marry her?" asked Severus, hoping for more time. "She's two."

"She won't be two forever. And she's the daughter of Bellatrix, which means she'll be a feisty little bitch unless she's broken now, taught to be docile, the wife I always wanted... and she'll be attractive, don't you think? With that witch for a mother? Give it twelve or so years..."

"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" He went without wordless but had to go wandless and to his immense relief, it worked. He caught the child before she hit the floor, but now what? The man lay there, unable to move, breathing deeply.

He grabbed Thorfinn's wand, pointed it at his face, and said, "Obliviate." He took from him all memory of the last year, of the girl, of everything post-War, including the way his wife had just died. He then bent down to ensure she was, indeed, gone, and upon doing so, shook his head, picked up the dripping girl in his left arm, took Thorfinn's wand in his right, pointed it at the sky out the bedroom window, and shouted, "Morsmordre!"

He hoped it would seem like a crime by a fellow former Death Eater, angry that they'd avoided punishment by selling out others.

He then retrieved his own wand, cradled the child protectively in his arms, and apparated to his home, the home of his mother, on Spinner's End.

-0-0-0-

Hermione had tears streaming down her cheeks as he told the tale.

"You didn't mean to kill her. It was an accident! And you weren't kidnapping Eileen, she's yours! Fine, you Obliviated Thorfinn Rowle, but that's hardly..."

"I would go to Azkaban. They would take Eileen away." He downed the last of that third glass of whiskey. "I wasn't even going to keep her. I told my mother I wanted to leave her in the same orphanage in Greece where my mother had left my older sister. Her parents, my grandparents, forced her to give up the girl though she did not want to. My mother, being unmarried and young with no prospects, obeyed. They choose Greece because my maternal grandmother was Greek and knew of an orphanage there that had taken in magical children before, which has always made me wonder whether I have an aunt or uncle somewhere that I have never met, in addition to my unknown sister. In any case, Mother met my father shortly after her return to England and ran off to marry him primarily to escape my grandparents. Fat lot of good it did her. He beat her - and me - until he died when I was fourteen. She went from a father who beat her to a husband who beat her." He ducked his head, clearly ashamed, as his hair created a curtain to shield him from her view. "I come from a long line of terrible parents on both sides, Hermione. How could I expect to be any better?"

"But you _are_ ," said Hermione. She took his hand to her lips and kissed his palm. _"You are."_

"Mother and I spent two months in Greece with Eileen, during which time she still did not have a name, which is why Mother started calling her _Corax_ , meaning crow, because she was clever. I told Mother we could not leave her at the orphanage until her injuries had healed. A Mediwitch there looked her over on our fourth day. In addition to the bruising and malnutrition, she had fractured ribs from being kicked and inflammation in her lungs from the near-drowning. At the end of two months, I brought her to the orphanage, gave her to the matron, and was leaving after a quick goodbye; I did not wish to prolong the pain of it. During this entire two months, she hadn't said a word, not even 'Mumma,' hell, not even gibberish, but as I was making my way down the path to the building, she wriggled away from the matron and ran after me, calling ' _Baba, Baba!'_ which is, as you know, the Greek for father. She must have picked it up from other children, as it was not something I'd taught her. I told the matron I'd made a terrible mistake, retrieved the belongings I'd just left for her, and took her home. We spent over a year in Greece, but never in the same place for too long, and we've been on the run all this time. I apologized for nearly leaving her, promised I'd never do it again, and named her Eileen Pax Prince. I had decided in that moment, when she called me 'Baba,' that it did not matter whether or not I was her father. As I told you before, whether I am or am not, I _am."_

"How did your mother feel when you returned with her?"

"She cried for three days. She said she'd never been happier or more proud of me." As much as he hated it, he felt his own cheeks going slightly pink at this. He'd made his mother proud precious few times in his fucked up life and couldn't help highly regarding the memory of her hugging him and telling him he was already a far better father than his own or his grandfather.

"And you've been running ever since?"

"Ever since. We start over in each new place knowing we won't be there for too long."

There was a long silence between them. Both could hear the ambient noises from outside coming through the window and Eileen's steady, peaceful breathing from inside the tent, and both could hear the steady beating of their own hearts, though neither knew the other was concentrating on the same. Finally, Hermione broke the silence.

"Severus?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you told me. And I don't think it's as bad as you think. Euphemia Rowle's death was an accident. You Obliviated Thorfinn Rowle because you panicked. You sent up the Dark Mark so they'd be discovered quickly – or you could say that's why you did it – and you've given Eileen a happy life, as much as possible, considering the circumstances. I think you're a good person."

"I'm telling you I killed a woman and kidnapped a child then erased the memory of a man to cover it up, and you're calling me a good person? I question your sense of morals, Hermione."

"Sometimes people do the wrong things for the right reasons." She brushed his hair back from his face, needing to meet his eyes. "And sometimes they do the right things for the wrong reasons, and personally, I think it's better to do the former than the latter."

"I think I'd like to kiss you again," he said, surprising even himself by being so forthcoming. "It's probably the wrong thing, but I cannot say whether it is for the right or wrong reason."

"Sometimes, the reason doesn't matter..." She guided his face toward hers. "Sometimes you just do what _feels_ right in the moment."

She tasted of peppermint toothpaste and cold Butterbeer and vanilla Chapstick, and wrong as it probably was, he didn't want to stop.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Obviously it's been awhile (about a fortnight) since my last update and I am really sorry for that. I was doing well with twice per week or more, but then I hit a wall. Basically, I deviated a little bit more from my chapter outline for so many chapters in a row that I ended up completely off-course with no idea how to get back on track. I ended up having to throw out my original chapter outline and redo the whole thing to fit what the fic has grown into, which is why this chapter is sort of heavy and skips ahead and has a lot of information. I hope it was still worth the read, and it will help to get back into the groove over the next couple of chapters. Thank you so so so much for your patience! I hope you're still interested in seeing where All Roads Lead to Rome ends up! And to all those who skipped over to read Stages of Grief, When Sorrows Come, or Wanting Narcissa in the interim, I thank you! Reviews keep me going even when I fear I've lost the muse. Please let me know what you think! Thanks again!

 **-AL**


	16. Welcome the Unknown

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN:**

 **Welcome the Unknown**

 **Move toward the darkness**  
 **welcome the unknown**  
 **Face your blackest demons**  
 **Find your weakest bone**  
 **Lost your inhibitions**  
 **Love what once was vile**  
 **Move toward the darkness and smile**

 **-Addams Family Musical**

That first night Severus had let her into his home, she'd commented on the flat's appearance and he'd replied, "Wait until you see the bedroom." She'd been shocked and slightly titillated, but he quickly clarified he meant she'd be surprised by the décor, not that she'd ever see it.

Now, she could see it.

All she could do was see it.

Because he'd fallen asleep on top of her and she was afraid moving would wake him.

To quote her on-break boyfriend, "Bloody hell."

It had started with that kiss on the couch.

That sweet, lovely kiss on the couch.

The kiss that gave her butterflies like the heroine of a cheap romance novel.

His fingertips had ghosted up her abdomen under her dark orange jumper, her hands had traversed his upper body, and when they'd parted, he'd spoken directly into her ear, a simple act capable of setting her entire body on blissful edge.

"If it is not abundantly clear, Miss Granger, I am attracted to you."

"If it is not abundantly clear, Severus, the feeling is mutual."

And then he was kissing her again.

And he was on top of her.

And she was clinging to him and grinding against him and desiring him and despite having had weeks to work it out in her mind, she still had no idea why she was experiencing this sudden inexplicable attraction to a man she had respected in the past, but never liked, and certainly never lusted after.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "You're beautiful."

She removed her own jumper, tossed it to the floor, and made to do the same with his button-down shirt.

"If this is to go farther, you must understand and accept that I have rules." He spoke directly into her ear again, which, as it had previously, sent shivers up her arms and down her spine and caused an uncomfortable clenching in her lower abdomen.

"Rules?"

"The first, and most important, is that Eileen shall never find us together." He continued to touch and kiss her as he spoke, but her eyes glanced toward the tent as her fingers stopped moving, leaving his shirt half-buttoned. She'd just remembered their close proximity to the sleeping child. He went on.

"She will never wake in the morning to find us in bed together, or catch us in any sort of compromising position, as that would be contrary to the morals I wish to instill in her."

Hermione bristled at this. Not that she thought the child should find them in bed together, but if he thought it immoral to teach his daughter that 'spending the night together' was normal for two consenting adults, why would it be acceptable to do with her at all? Did he think _her_ immoral?

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "I do not believe men and women must be married before engaging in physical activity, but you intend to leave for another country soon and to return to London in the spring, thus this situation is hardly long-term,and I do not wish for her to think women will come and go, playing Mummy for a few months until they get bored."

That bothered her too. What if she wanted it to be long-term? What if they found themselves compatible in a way she'd never been with Ron and he'd never been with... anyone... and they wanted more from each other? What if she wanted to play Mummy? She didn't want her own children, at least not yet, but what was the harm in caring for his? He seemed to sense these questions too. (She really _did_ need to better learn Occlumency.)

"I am not interested in marriage or more children. If you are, this cannot continue. I have the only child I can handle and I doubt very much I would make for an adequate spouse. I also have no interest in ruining your life, as I believe I had previously expressed, and to drag you into our situation with any sort of permanency would certainly do so. To that point, are you on the potion?"

"I... no." She did not like how formal he was being now (though she did like the way his hand was caressing her thigh as he spoke). "That's a rather personal question."

"I don't make it a habit of bedding women who shy away from answering personal questions, especially ones of that nature."

"No?" She raised both eyebrows in mock surprise. "So you asked Bellatrix Lestrange all about her views on and uses of birth control, did you?"

His expression was wooden and for a moment she thought she might have gone too far, but after a couple of seconds he smirked as if bested.

"Touché. She and I never discussed it, though I imagine, had I asked, she would have answered with a lie. That said, in the years since I have been considerably more careful – and discerning – in regards to the women I have chosen to bed."

"How many women?"

"Why do you want to know? How many men have you had?" He was still wearing the smirk, which she found infuriatingly attractive. "Are you a virgin, Hermione? Are you in need of instruction in this area? I know you are a quick and dedicated learner, thus if it is my tutelage you seek..."

"Dozens," she interrupted truculently.

"Dozens?"

She worked to keep a blank, closed mind. He cleared his throat. She hadn't heard him do it in awhile. Or perhaps she hadn't noticed. His smirk faltered and faded. He almost looked... hurt. Or... nervous. She wondered if he was intimidated by the notion that she might be more expereinced than he. "Yes, Severus. _Dozens."_

"Dozens? Not one dozen, but plural, dozens?"

Now she was the one hiding a smirk. Yes, this had definitely gotten to him, and she was enjoying having the upper hand. "You asked me before if I've gone from man to man as I traveled country to country and though I found the question insulting for its insinuation, the answer is yes. Dozens is likely an exaggeration, but I haven't kept count. Perhaps... fourteen? Seventeen? Twenty-three? Who can recall? It's been a busy year."

"Half a year." His smirk was completely gone now. She could feel him attempting to poke around inside her mind, so she diverted her eyes and tried to think of nothing at all. "You've had over a dozen men in half a year?"

"A few were from before. Six or seven. But most of them I've met since I've been traveling, yes."

He stared at her until she began to squirm, feeling like she was back in the classroom, and knowing she couldn't keep lying for long. She was, after all, no Occlumens.

"I don't believe you. What were their names?"

"Ohh, you know, the usual names... Not sure I can remember them all, since so many were one-offs, matter of fact, a few I didn't even ask, but I'll list what I can recall... Let me think..." She was stalling for time, pretending to tick them off on her fingers. "Viktor... Borislav... Nikola... Ivan... Aleksander... Todor..."

His smirk returned, even broader than before. "You're telling me you've shagged the Bulgarian Quidditch team? Did that include the seventh member, Antonia, or were you not interested in her?"

Hermione went as red as the cross on the Union Jack. She naively hadn't expected him to know the names of every Quidditch player on Viktor's team, especially since he'd confessed he'd never really liked the sport.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Yes," she answered, deciding she might as well dig herself in deeper. "Antonia too. I do not believe in discrimination of any kind, and that includes based on gender."

He laughed. She couldn't help smiling sheepishly, despite her annoyance at having been caught. She liked making him laugh, even if it was technically at her expense.

"You _are_ a virgin," he said. He kissed her neck and though she tried to look put out, she tilted her head to grant him better access. "It's alright. I'll teach you. I am an experienced teacher."

"Oh? And how many women have you had?"

"You know..." He kissed the center of her throat, then her lips, then her cheek before answering. "Dozens."

"Sod off."

"Shall I name them?"

"Please don't."

"But I want to. There was Gwenog Jones, Valmai Morgan, Eliza Hartley, Ginevra Weasley..."

She smacked his bicep playfully. "You're naming the players on the Holyhead Harpies and you're not at all funny. Tell me the truth!"

"If I tell you, do you intend to tell your friends?"

"Of course not."

"Very well." He sighed. "Six."

"Six?" She'd genuinely expected it to be higher, but perhaps six was a normal number for a never-married man in his... how old was he? Early forties. Forty-three? Six in twenty-six years, if he started upon coming of age.

"Six," he repeated. "Two before the war, four since. Hardly dozens. And you?"

"Just one." She thought she ought to be honest now, since he'd been. "Just Ronald Weasley."

"Just Weasley?" He pulled a face. "Then you might as well be a virgin. If he's as much a disaster in his personal life as he was on a Quidditch pitch..."

"You're awful!" she admonished, but when he resumed kissing her, she resumed unbuttoning his shirt. As his lips were moving down her chest, she entangled her fingers in his hair. She sucked air in through her teeth when he tongue ran down the valley between her breasts and didn't stop, going lower and lower down her belly, to the waistband of her jeans.

"Have you any other rules? Or is it nothing more than, 'Don't wake up here, don't get pregnant, don't expect marriage in the future'?"

"Those are the important ones." His hands run up the backs of her legs, squeezed her bum, then moved to unbutton the fly of her jeans. "Have you any rules?"

"Only two. One, that you not be sleeping with other women while you're sleeping with me..."

"I promise I would wake you up before inviting another women to sleep with me while you're already sleeping with me." He said this in a completely dry tone. She rolled her eyes.

"You know what I mean."

His mouth moved further south, kissing her over the fabric of her jeans, until his face was between her thighs. She moaned as he touched her there with his tongue, even though she could barely feel it through the material. The simulation, the mere _suggestion_ , had her aching and wet.

"That is a fair rule." His lips moved up again, this time to kiss her hip, while his hand went to her lower back. "Any others?"

"If I say no, or stop, or that you're hurting me, you... you need to stop."

He stopped.

He stopped and simply stared at her.

"I don't mean right this second," she said, wriggling her hips to urge him to continue. "I mean when we're..."

"That should not need to be a rule." His voice was serious, almost harshly so. She felt taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that should be a given. You should not have to specifically state that no means stop or that I shouldn't hurt you unless you are requesting it of me."

"Sometimes boys get... carried away." She felt herself blushing again, but this time it was from embarrassment; she almost felt as if she'd done something wrong, even though that was nonsense. "Sometimes a girl has to say no or stop several times, or hit or hex him before he gets the message."

"No." Severus sat up. She could see that he was aroused, and she wanted to run her fingers along his bare chest, to kiss his blackened scarring, but he no longer seemed in the mood. "I am not a boy, Hermione. I am a man, and..."

"Boys, men, you know what I meant! Males! They can get carried away, and... and... you know."

"To whom are you referring?"

"To no one in particular!" This was untrue, of course. She was referring to many people in particular. To Cormac McLaggan, who'd practically snogged her face off before she managed to detangle herself from him, and to Demetrius, a Muggle University student she met in Greece who needed wandless magical intervention to put a stop to his wandering hands, and even to Ron, who usually responded to her "No!" or "Not that!" or "Not tonight!" with "Come on!" or "Just this once!" or "But you love me!" She was also referring to the boys and men her friends and coworkers had dated, as she'd hear the complaints later – "Practically had to hex his bollocks off before he'd stop kissing me!" or "I told him he had exactly three seconds more to get his hand off my arse before we were going to have trouble!" or "I said no over and over, but he kept begging and finally I just got sick of saying no, so I said yes. It's just easier that way."

"You're talking about assault," said Severus.

"No! I'm not."

"You are."

"No! Just overzealousness and..."

"I learned the meaning of the word 'no' when I was a toddler," he cut her off. "I promise, should you say it, I'll oblige without further discussion or attempts at coercion."

She wondered whether that was what she'd been doing to him before, when they'd snogged on the couch. He'd wanted her to tell him to stop. She'd refused. But he hadn't actually said stop, had he? She hadn't ignored his 'no,' right? Her nose twitched.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I am not upset."

Except it seemed to her that he _was_. She hoped this wouldn't ruin the evening. She'd so been looking forward to his return... and to _this._

"Severus? You're not angry with me?"

"Not at all." He tugged a frazzled strand of her hair. "I am not angry with you, nor am I upset. I... I respect you, and..."

"And you like me?"

He half-smiled. "And I like you."

"Good. I like you, too. So you'll follow my rules and I'll follow yours."

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to her, moving closer. He brushed back a tendril of hair, ran his thumb lightly over her lips, and leaned in as if to kiss her, but when their mouths were but a galleon's width apart, he whispered, "Agreed," and pulled back.

"Good." She placed a hand on his knee... Above his knee... Up his thigh... "Now take me to bed. If you want to, I mean. If you want to, I want you to."

"I want to."

"I want you to."

He didn't wait for another request. He stood, pulled her to her feet, and lifted her over his shoulder, like a troll a carrying a club, with his hand on her arse.

"What are you doing?!"

"You asked me to take you to bed."

"This is not what I had in mind!"

The bedroom door opened to them on its own and closed most of the way, leaving only a crack. He tossed Hermione most unceremoniously down on the bed. She barely had a chance to register the room around her, which was decorated in pastel pink, off-white, and gold, before he was on top of her.

"You're too young for me," he said as he unclasped her bra, removed it, and immediately began palming her breasts, groaning as he did so.

"If you say that again I'll transfigure you into a toad." She arched her back as his mouth closed over her nipple, his tongue flicking against the hardened bud in the center before he began to suck, making her cry out. She explored his upper body with her hands as he did hers. Upon feeling his erection digging into her leg she grew bold, pushed her palms against his shoulders, and flipped them, putting him on his back. She started with his scar again, kissing it, tracing it with the tip of her tongue, bringing her mouth down to his waistband as he'd done to her on the couch. She unfastened his trousers and slid them partway down, just enough to free his cock from the confines of his pants. She licked the tip, then blew on it, before taking his length in her hand. She held him, then ran her fingertips up and down his shaft, then flicked her tongue against his head again. She kissed him there. She squeezed lightly, just enough to elicit another groan.

Teasing him.

"Please..." he said pleadingly as his cock twitched in her hand. "Please, I need you."

She'd never heard his voice sound like this before, like he was desperate and begging, and yet there was a primal quality to it. She helped him the rest of the way out of his trousers and pants, tossed both off the bed, and took him in her mouth. Though she'd intended it to be a brief act of foreplay (for which she hoped he'd return the favor) she found herself enjoying this, being in charge, having the power, while he stroked her hair and clutched at the blankets and bucked involuntarily against her.

"Brilliant," he said as she sucked him. "You're... the fucking smartest... the brightest witch of... I want to be inside your mind. I want to... to be inside your..." He let out a guttural noise as she took him entirely into her mouth then pulled back, now sucking only on the head. One hand wrapped itself in her hair. The other was grasping the blanket under them, as if he could only maintain self control for as long as he was holding the fabric in his fingers.

"I might..." He groaned while her hand moved quickly up and down, helping along the pleasure being derived from the ministrations with her mouth. "Oh, Hermione... yes... fuck... yes, Hermione..."

Her lips curled into a smile but she did not stop. For a girl he'd said 'might as well be a virgin,' she was certainly adept at making him moan her name, which gave her a smug sense of satisfaction.

"I might... I might..."

She sped up her hand movements and sucked harder, sliding her mouth up and down, and she even hummed a little, a technique she'd read about in a Muggle magazine but hadn't actually had the chance to try yet. Apparently the author of 10 Tricks to Try While Performing Perfect Fellatio was an expert in her subject, because this sent Severus over the edge. He came hard, hips jerked, spilling himself into her mouth, for which he promptly apologized.

"I liked it," she said honestly, once she was by his side, her palm on his chest, his arm around her. They lay in silence for some time, both even more exhausted than they'd been earlier, and yet more invigorated.

"I typically last _far_ longer," he assured her as his heartbeat slowed to normal and he regained the ability to breathe. "Ask anyone on the Holyhead Harpies."

She laughed.

They kissed.

He was just positioning himself over her again when an anguished cry from the sitting room jarred them both.

"No!" He glanced anxiously around the room for his discarded trousers, and, upon finding them, pulled them on. The cries from the other room became screams. He hurried out to console the child, leaving Hermione. She closed her eyes and began counting slowly to one-hundred, wondering whether she should try to help or gather her clothes or simply stay put.

He returned before Hermione had made a decision.

"Not a nightmare," he said. "Nor an... incident." He looked relieved, but Hermione could see that the panic in his face upon her first screams had not entirely relaxed away. "She rolled off her little bed and landed on a hard plastic toy Hippogriff given to her by Newt Scamander's wife. She was crying because it hurt."

"She's alright then? Back to sleep?" Hermione sat up on the high four-poster bed, facing him with her hands crossed over her bare breasts. He nodded, closed the door most of the way, and returned to the bed.

"Back to sleep. It's been a long few weeks for both of us. It's been a long few months, since Mother... it's been a long four years." Standing before Hermione, her thighs on either side of his hips, he leaned down and kissed her. "I am perpetually exhausted. Now, where were we?"

"You were about to do for me as I've already done for you," she said, surprising herself with the forwardness of this suggestion.

"Ah, yes." He climbed back into bed. "I am looking forward to it." He positioned himself on top of her. "Try not to scream too loudly, I haven't placed a silencing charm on the room." He began kissing her cheek, her neck, her shoulder... her shoulder... her shoulder...

"Severus?"

He answered with a light snore.

He'd fallen asleep with his lips pressed to her shoulder.

For awhile, at least an hour, she was afraid to move, unwilling to accidentally wake him when clearly he desperately needed the sleep, but eventually her entire left side had gone numb under his weight, and she'd grown bored with taking in the ivory carpet, the pale pink curtains, the gold-trimmed bedspread, and the tall wooden wardrobe, the reason he always smelled of cedar, a scent she'd been quickly growing contentedly accustomed too.

She'd also grown bored with the over-analyzing she always seemed to do, over everything, even though getting away from that had been one of her primary focuses in the post-war trauma therapy (technically, for her, it had been post-breakdown therapy). She knew if the therapeutic mediwitch she'd worked with were here now, she'd be telling Hermione to live in the moment, not to worry about the future or dwell on the past, not to question his motives and feelings and her own motives and feelings and whether those motives were misguided or those feelings would change. She would want Hermione to allow herself to enjoy being with a man who made her feel good in the moment. And she did indeed feel good in the moment. Still...

Carefully as she could, she wriggled out from under him, found her bra and knickers and jeans, and redressed. She slipped into the sitting room for her jumper, sat down on the couch to put on her trainers, and realized she was near-exhaustion too (not to mention emotionally overwhelmed the events of the evening, learning the truth about Eileen and Severus' criminal past, and having nearly doubled her number of sexual partners by giving herself to him).

She closed her eyes to count to one-hundred again, as it was the method she'd learned in treatment and it usually helped to center her and keep her calm, but somewhere around seventy, her head hit the arm of the couch, her feet curled up by the foot, and then she, like Severus in the bed and Eileen in the tent, was fast asleep.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Kind of a short and citrusy chapter. Hope you don't mind! A couple of reviewers were hoping I'd avoid smut in this fic and while I don't intend to get super graphic with anything, it _is_ M-rated for some lemony scenes like this one. I tried to juxtapose some humor and emotional 'stuff' with so there's at least a little plot. The next chapter includes fun Hermione and Eileen bonding time that I'm excited about, so please stay tuned! Also to come, we see Minerva again, plus Harry and Ron. They'll get back into the mini-mystery, and then some hard choices will have to be made, because Hermione isn't on sabbatical - or her relationship 'break' - _forever..._ and Severus doesn't know how long he can keep running, especially if he thinks he may have found someone it would hurt to run away from.

Thanks for reading!

 **-AL**

 **PS: I don't know what happened, but somehow the first chapter of Stages of Grief ended up replacing the first chapter of this fic and I only noticed tonight. No idea when or how it happened but I apologize! I must have updated and selected the wrong document or something. Ugh!**


	17. Warning

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:**

 **Warning**

 _ **"And dreaming doesn't do no good  
**_ _ **'Cause I don't want to lie  
**_ _ **That I'm okay and I'm alright  
**_ _ **I'd rather take it and forget it  
**_ _ **Consider this a warning..."**_

 **-Anna Nalick**

When Severus woke, he was alone. Not only in the bed, but in the apartment, apparently. He wandered from room to room searching for Hermione and Eileen and was just starting to panic, assuming his former student had gone home the night before and his daughter had started wandering among the ruins again, when his second pass through the kitchen yielded an answer: they'd left a note.

 _Severus,_

 _Thought you could use a lie-in._

 _Took Eileen to breakfast and to do some light shopping._

 _Please don't be angry and do not worry._

 _We'll return by lunchtime._

 _Hermione and_

E _i L_ E E _n_

Though he was more than a little perturbed that she'd taken it upon herself to bring his daughter out in public, he couldn't help appreciating the extra sleep... and he thought it was sweet that Hermione had helped Eileen sign her name.

Still, he spent the next hour waffling worrying someone would spot Hermione, recognize her, and somehow figure out who she was accompanying around Rome. He imagined the Wizengamot sending Aurors to his door, taking him into custody, and promising to send her back, either to the Malfoys, who didn't want her, or to an orphanage... or, worst of all, to her former guardian, Thorfinn Rowle.

When he was thoroughly exhausted by that dire possibility, another source of anxiety crept into his mind. What if no one recognized them, but Eileen had a sensory-related meltdown or a denied-access temper tantrum, started screaming and breaking things, and, in a show of unintentional magic, made things explode or levitate in front of dozens of Muggle tourists? Hermione would have to balance calming the child and Obliviating the witnesses before Aurors arrived.

He was just about done convincing himself something horrible had happened and he should go out looking for them when he heard the front door open. He leapt up from the easy chair and rushed toward the entrance to the hall, pausing before stepping through, unwilling to let either of them see how little he'd been able to relax in their absence.

Once facing them, Severus did a double take.

Hermione's bushy hair was mostly hidden under a scarf, same as Eileen's, and she wore a long dark gray shapeless dress, the same style as Eileen's muted moss green one. Her eyebrows had been darkened to black, like his daughter's, and she'd also darkened the color of her pupils, from cinnamon brown to the nearly black.

"You look... different."

She tapped her wand to her temple, ending the Glamour. "I didn't want to risk being recognized."

This sentence, even more than the moment with the pizza sauce, made him want to grab her and kiss her and not have to stop there, but of course he made no such move. Instead, he quietly said, "Thank you for that," and picked up Eileen for a hug.

"Hi Baba."

"Hello. You were a good girl for Hermione?"

"Good girl Hah-nimy," she echoed, looking past him, flicking the fingers on one hand just behind her ear. He bounced her softly, trying to get her attention.

"Eileen? Eileen, were you well-behaved for breakfast and shopping? What did you eat?"

"Hi Baba." She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "Hah-nimy, Eileen eat a grapes biscuit."

"We shared a little plate of shortbread biscuits and grapes," Hermione translated. "I love this little café not far from my flat. They have the best coffee drinks, best biscuits... We specially requested the grapes because Eileen wanted them."

"Eat a grape, shop a store," added Eileen.

"We bought her three new dresses and two new headscarves."

Eileen wriggled to get down and reached for the shopping bag. "Has a purple dress, Eileen."

"Say, 'I have a purple dress,'" Hermione corrected before Severus could open his mouth to do the same. She then handed the shopping bag to the girl, who passed it to her father.

"Have a purple dress. Go a store, Eileen, Hah-nimy. Baba need a nap."

The expression on his face was unreadable, but not blank. Pink-cheeked Hermione filled with apprehension. Perhaps she'd overstepped by taking the girl out. She'd wanted to help, but hadn't he just told her last night he didn't want his child getting attached to her? Had their morning excursion broken one of his rules?

"I'm sorry, Severus," she said softly. "I didn't mean to... I was trying to... I..."

"I understand." He removed Eileen's headscarf, tossing it to the armchair, and stroked her silvery hair. "No need to apologize, Hermione. What do I owe you for the dresses?"

"Nothing. They're a gift." Her defiant eyes told him not to insist upon paying, but he tried anyway, giving up after she'd insisted twice more she wouldn't accept his money. Shortly thereafter, she bid them goodbye, prepared to return home to shower, eat lunch, and respond to a few letters. She hugged Eileen, who did not hug back because she was busy twisting her fingers in front of her eyes and clicking her tongue, seemingly in her own world. She then smiled uncertainly at Severus.

"I'll see you soon?" she asked.

"I'd like to see you now," he replied woodenly. "In the kitchen, please."

Feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, she followed him into the kitchen, where they positioned themselves behind the partial wall and out of view of Eileen.

"When I awoke and you – and Eileen – were gone, I was terrified. I thought she might have eloped to the ruins again."

"I'm so sor–"

"Please, let me finish. I was terrified. Once I read your note, I was terrified by all the possible things that could go wrong with the two of you out without me."

"I didn't think–"

"Please. When we were speaking, I... I was not intentionally invading your thoughts, but I could sense your apprehension. I realize you're worried I'll be angry if Eileen bonds with you."

"I–"

"Hermione, please."

"Sorry."

"I am a conflicted man, as you may have realized over these last few weeks. While I have always considered myself a solitary creature, until my mother became ill and passed, thus leaving me with full responsibility over Eileen, I did not realize how difficult solitary lifestyle can be - nor did I fully appreciate the difficulties of single parenthood. I haven't had dinner alone with a book at a restaurant, which I used to enjoy, in nearly a year. I haven't dated in over a year."

(Though there was no reason for it, Hermione went even pinker at this.)

"I haven't had opportunity to sleep late, I've engaged in precious few adult conversations, and I've spent more than a little time contemplating when we will disappear again and where we will go. The only reason we've been here so long is that Eileen seems to like it and uprooting her always results in... in a regression of sorts. It is because I am a conflicted man that I do not know whether to thank you profusely for taking her out - she hates dress shopping and I did appreciate the extra sleep - or blow up at you because you had no right to take her anywhere, which could have been dangerous."

"I'm sor-"

"Do not interrupt."

She bristled at being spoken to like a student, but stopped trying to apologize.

"I will be completely candid, Hermione Granger. Though I both like and respect you, I have contemplated taking you to bed, dismissing you before sunrise, and disappearing before the next nightfall, even though I firmly believe you deserve far better treatment. And I lied to you last night."

"About?"

"I told you I'd been with six women, two before the war, and four after. This was a lie. I was regularly with two before the war, and I've _dated_ four since. But during the first three years on the run since the incident with the Rowles, I _had_ a number of others, one time each, all of whom knew me by a pseudonym and were likely baffled when unable to find me ever again. I've been... I haven't been a decent man. I've never in my life been a decent man."

Hermione wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that doing what he did for Harry, because of his devotion to Lily, made him a decent man, and she wanted to tell him what he'd done for Dumbledore and for Draco made him a decent man, and especially that taking his daughter away from the Rowles and choosing not to leave her in an orphanage, and raising her to the best of his abilities, that made him a decent man too. But she didn't. She was too thrown by the knowledge that he'd put serious thought into fucking her and fleeing, and that he'd done the same to (how many?) other women.

"I am conflicted in my..." He cleared his throat. "In my feelings for you, and in how I wish to act on those feelings, but ultimately, you deserve better, as I've told you before. You deserve a decent man, Hermione, because you are a good, moral, and decent person, and that is why I should have Obliviated you and sent you away that first night." He stepped closer and she shivered, feeling both intimidated by his close proximity and turned on by it, despite his words. "I should have, but I didn't."

"No, you didn't."

"Conflicted as I am, I didn't want to turn you away then and I do not want to turn you away now."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I want you to return tonight, but only if you do so knowing who I am. I lie. I use. I leave. My primary concern is for my child and my secondary concern is for myself. I am the quintessential Slytherin: cunning, ambitious, and fiercely loyal to precious few. That said, I _do_ respect you, I _am_ attracted to you, and I _would_ like for you to return."

"If I'm as intelligent as everyone says I am, I will not return."

"True."

"Why shouldn't I leave now, return to London, and tell everyone where you are and what you've done?" Though she posed the question, she knew she'd never do anything of the sort.

"Because, Miss Granger, you are not the quintessential Slytherin. You're not even the typical Gryffindor. How you managed to avoid Ravenclaw, I'll never understand."

"It's because I'm brave and determined."

He smirked, which put her slightly more at ease. "Or it's because you're self-righteous and a rule-breaker."

"A rule-breaker? Me?" She tried to appear highly insulted. "I resent that!"

"First year, you went looking for a troll and managed to get Potter through my potions chamber. Second year, you stole from my classroom stores to brew a secret potion..."

(She gasped, having had no idea he knew about the Polyjuice.)

"And later entered the Chamber of Secrets with a professor whose mind is still addled from the experience. Third year, we were both nearly killed by a werewolf in part thanks to you and I am not convinced you only used that Time Turner for academic purposes, despite Dumbledore's insistence. Fourth year, I am certain you assisted Potter with his Triwizard tasks somehow. Fifth year, must I mention Dumbledore's Army and the break-in at the Ministry? Sixth year, when Potter was using my potions textbook–"

"No!" she broke in. "I wanted him to return that textbook! I didn't trust the so-called 'Half-Blood Prince' and was adamant that he stop taking directions from the notes in the margins!"

"Ah." The smirk grew. "So you turned him in for this?"

"Well, no, but..."

He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, wishing he had the strength to send her away, but feeling weaker than he had in years. "Do you intend to return to your job at the Ministry and tell those in power that I survived the war only to kidnap a child that may not be mine, leaving her caretakers to die?"

Hermione's gaze met his. She hoped he could see the sincerity in her eyes. "No, sir. Not even if you used me and disappeared, or made me care for you only to break my heart. I genuinely feel you are the best possible parent for Eileen, and I think she'll have enough difficulty in her life without losing her father – and you _are_ her father, regardless of who her mother slept with – thus I would never, for any reason, betray your confidence by revealing you to anyone."

He half-smiled as his hand went to her hip, drawing her toward him. "In that case, should you return to me tonight, I promise it shall be worth your while."

"How... how so?"

He bent down to murmur in her ear. "I promise you pleasure."

"Pl... pleasure?"

He kissed her temple. "Your experience is limited, is it not?"

She nodded, momentarily unable to speak, as his lips moved to the corner of hers. His voice was low... so low... there was almost a rumble to it, which caused a similar rumble in her lower abdomen.

"Conflicted as I continue to be, I cannot deny that I want you, Hermione. I could teach you. You could use me. I _desire_ you."

The way he said 'desire' brought the hairs on the back of her neck to a point.

"But be aware that whatever happens between us shall be entirely meaningless – and temporary. When the time comes for you to move on to your next nation, we'll bid each other adieu and never speak of this again, not to anyone. Agreed?"

A meaningless fling wasn't truly what he wanted, not by a long shot. He couldn't help thinking she was precisely the sort of woman he could see himself sharing more than a couple of nights with – but as he'd told Minerva, he wouldn't pursue more with her, no matter what. He was a man on the run, a traitor thought dead, guilty of murder, and saddled with being the sole provider for a troubled child. She was a brilliant young witch with a family, friends, an 'on-break' boyfriend, and a promising future. As he'd told her the night before, he did not want a marriage and more children, nor did he wish to see Eileen's heart shattered by the loss of another mother, thus he had to make this clear.

Hermione nodded her agreement, though she, too, hated the thought of a meaningless fling, especially as she'd grown to like him so very quickly... and could imagine what she already felt blossoming into more. Still, a fling seemed better than nothing at all, especially if it meant continuing to build a friendship, and possibly helping with the child.

Her nod made him sigh, smile, and – as he so frequently did since the snake attack – clear his throat.

"Eileen should be asleep by ten. Return then, if you so desire."

Hermione reached into her pocket, pulled out a small vial, and took his hand, pressing the glass bottle between their palms. Feeling bold, she slipped her other hand around his waist, resting it on his lower back, bringing him flush against her.

"I picked up something for us at the apothecary while Eileen and I were shopping today," she whispered.

He cocked an eyebrow and removed his hand from hers, but did not back away. He checked the label on the potion.

"Birth control?"

"You don't want marriage and you don't want more children and if I do, you don't want me. I was listening last night. I'm not happy that you lied to me, but I find your offer intriguing." She tried to look sensual, flirtatious... but had a feeling she was failing as badly as she had that time she had to act like Bellatrix while Polyjuiced. She lowered her chin, then drew up her eyes, the way she'd seen women do in Muggle movies. "I think I'd like to learn whatever you can teach me. Professor."

She wondered if he could feel her heartbeat through her chest.

He wondered the same, as his, too, was pounding.

"I promise you pleasure, Hermione, and in exchange, you must make me a promise."

"What's that?"

His lips closed in on hers. When they were nearly touching, he said, "Promise that you shall never again call me 'Professor.'"

And then he was kissing her.

And she was kissing him.

And both knew, despite any promises, they did not want this to be meaningless.

-0-0-0-

Hermione struggled to write to her friends. She did not want to lie, but could not think of any truths to tell. Finally she wrote that she'd been shopping, was trying to solve a mystery involving some ancient runes carved into a bust discarded among the ruins, and that she'd eaten grapes and biscuits with a cappuccino at her favorite cafe earlier in the day. She sighed and set them aside to be sent later.

She then went into the loo to shower and berate herself in front of the mirror.

"Who are you?" she asked her reflection. Being a plain Muggle mirror, there was no answer back.

Hermione had never had an interest in children, including her much younger sister, Hermia. If anything, she found the fact that her parents promptly made another baby upon 'forgetting' her bothersome. She was in no hurry to become a mother herself, and though she liked Harry's little godson Teddy, she didn't get as excited about having him around as Harry, Ginny, and Ron, all of whom seemed to be thinking about their own future children on a regular basis as of late.

Just another reason she needed to get away.

But she had genuinely enjoyed her 1:1 shopping excursion with Severus' daughter. They'd walked holding hands and Eileen had continued to call her "Hah-nimy," pointing out everything from stray cats to fluffy clouds to shop windows to show her. For awhile, the girl had hummed and flapped and acted as though Hermione wasn't present, but she did not pull away or tantrum, so Hermione didn't mind. During breakfast, Hermione tried to ask the girl questions and got answered about twenty-five percent of the time, and she'd had fun trying dresses on the girl, like having a living doll (not that Hermione'd ever been much into dolls).

"Purple?" Eileen said, tugging at a dress on a hanger. It was too small for her and there were no larger sizes, but once inside the fitting room, Hermione was able to transfigure it into the girl's size.

"You want this purple dress, Eileen?"

"Purple dress, Eileen!"

It was a light lavender with a dark violet trim around the collar, cuffs, and hem, much brighter and more feminine than any of the dresses Severus seemed to buy for her, which were all so somber looking, save for this moss green one Hermione had chosen that morning.

"You look lovely in it! If you like it, we'll get it."

"Like a get it," echoed Eileen.

They'd had one odd moment en route back to Severus' rented apartment, when Eileen suddenly clutched Hermione's side and buried her face into the cloth of her dress.

"What's wrong?" Hermione crouched down and wrapped her arms around the girl. "What is it?"

"Vampire," whispered Eileen. "Vampire witch."

"Where?" Hermione's eyes darted around the busy street. She saw nothing and no one out of the ordinary. It took only a fraction of a second for her to calm, realizing the girl was likely just confused. Perhaps she'd seen someone who reminded her of the scary visions she saw in her dreams. "No, no, Eileen, no vampires. No witches. And no vampire witches. You're safe here. Besides, it's daytime. Vampires don't go out in the daytime!" But Hermione lifted her anyway and walked faster, her wand up her sleeve, hearing the voice of the late Mad-Eye Moody in her mind: "Constant vigilance!"

-0-0-0-

Severus spent the afternoon and evening at home alone with Eileen, as usual. He had her try on the new dresses and though he wasn't crazy about the lavender one, he liked that she liked it. They played the Baba Monster game, brewed a batch of nerve calming potion for Minerva at Hogwarts (she claimed it was for Poppy to provide to students, but he had a feeling she was partaking on occasion as well) and read several books whilst cuddling on the couch. She was in a particularly cuddly mood.

Before bedtime, he led her in the breathing and mind-clearing exercises suggested and taught to them by Newt Scamander. Severus had felt a little ashamed, frankly, to admit to the man that he'd not made any attempt to teach her the basics of Occlumency to help with her nightmares.

"She seems to Occlude naturally," Severus had said with a shrug. "And her nightmares do not seem to stem from an invasion into her mind."

"I believe they do, actually," said Scamander. "I believe her mother invades her mind on a regular basis."

Severus had been prepared to protest that her mother was dead, thus this was impossible, but Scamander cut him off.

"Not in the present, but the past. Children like Eileen and Caelus are born connected to their mothers in ways that other children are not. I believe Eileen's mother's memories come to her in her dreams, and when that's happening she sees the world as her mother saw it, almost as if she'd being possessed by the woman and experiencing the past in real time, which can be traumatic, depending upon the life the mother had lived."

"Great," Severus said sarcastically. He hadn't technically identified Bellatrix to the Scamanders, but he had been up front about the fact that Eileen's mother had been a vehement supporter of the Dark Lord and was both a sadist and a murderer. Even without saying the words "Death Eater" he had a feeling they'd discerned who she was. "I don't wish for her to remember her mother, and you're telling me she not only remembers her, she remembers what her mother remembered?"

"This is, of course, all speculation," said Scamander. "So little is known about... about special children like yours, and like Minerva's. Of all the Obscurial children with whom I've worked, only three were like Eileen."

"What happened to the other two?" asked Severus, glancing at Minerva, who was staring stonily down at her hands, no doubt willing herself not to cry over the death of her son.

"One boy lived to be fourteen!" said Scamander, trying to make this sound more positive than dismal.

"And the other child?" asked Severus.

Newt Scamander and his wife, Tina, exchanged a glance. She then diverted her gaze down to the small child dozing in her lap, while her husband became focused on the tea leaves at the bottom of his mug.

"The other one?" prodded Severus. "What became of the other one?"

"I'm sorry," said Scamander with a shake of his head. He brought his eyes up to meet Severus'. "The girl didn't live to see seven."

-0-0-0-

"I like him," Hermione said as she shampooed her hair. "I can't help it. I can't understand why. And I can't stop myself. I like him. I like him! I bloody like him. Severus Snape, Potions Professor, that ornery, sullen and snarky bully, a former Death Eater, nearly twice my age, and I _like_ him. What is wrong with me?" She thought about Ronald Weasley, working at the Ministry, living in London, wanting to marry her, waiting for her to return, and she felt sick with guilt. What was she about to do?

She was about to do what she'd been doing for months.

Whatever she wanted.

She was selfish. She was being selfish.

But she needed this. She needed this selfishness. She needed this escape.

"I'm sorry, Ron." She reached for the conditioner, a new scent, and wondered whether Severus had any strong feelings about lavender rosemary. "Ron, if I go through with this, will you ever forgive me?"

-0-0-0-

"I like her," Severus whispered to the sleeping child in his arms. "I think you like her. And she likes us. I don't understand _why_ she likes us, but she seems to like us. But the fact is, the closer we allow her to get, the more it will hurt when she's gone. I'm sorry, Eileen." He kissed her head and stood to carry her to the little bed inside her tent. "I'm sorry if this ends up hurting you. I'm sorry for my selfishness." He crawled inside the tent, placed her into bed, and tucked her in. Staring down at her innocent face, calm for the moment, he felt sick with guilt. This tryst with Hermione was something he was doing for himself, despite knowing it could very well cause his child, the only person in his life to truly matter, pain in the end... and yet he did not want to turn Hermione away, should she return tonight.

"I'm sorry, Eileen. But Baba is... very lonely." He stroked her hair. She stirred in her sleep but did not wake. "Whatever this is with her, I need it, if only for a little while. Can you ever forgive me?"

-0-0-0-

Hermione returned promptly at ten, though she did so fearing he might have disappeared, as he'd admitted considering.

He answered the door looking... nervous.

"I thought you might change your mind," he explained as he let her in.

"We still have a mystery to solve."

"We do?"

She smiled shakily. She was nervous too. She'd spent all day nervous. She'd skipped lunch and hardly ate dinner, but she had consumed two glasses of wine before leaving her apartment with the hope of giving herself some 'liquid courage.' Instead of making her less nervous, it added the feel of a tempest-tossed ocean under the butterfly garden in her gut.

"The mystery of the ancient runes, remember?"

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "That. Yes."

"But there's no rush. We could... look into it later."

"Later, of course." He looked her over the way he had that first night they stumbled upon each other in the ruins. "You look lovely."

She'd changed into what she considered one of her more date-worthy dresses. It was tight through the bodice but flared out over the hips, with tiny buttons all the way down. She'd left several unbuttoned at the top, showing off a bit of cleavage, enhanced by her one 'good' bra.

"You changed, too." She wanted to tell him he looked lovely, but that hardly seemed the right word for a grown man, and at the moment all other appropriate adjectives had flown from her mind. He glanced down at his attire: a soft looking semi-fitted black t-shirt and black trousers. He'd opted for casual. "Nice shirt."

"Nice dress."

Her eyes sparkled in the dim light streaming into the hall from the sitting room, where he'd left a candle lit by magical flame in case Eileen should wake and be frightened to find herself alone in the dark.

"Nice trousers," she said awkwardly, her smile still shaky.

He laughed.

She laughed.

And the storm in her stomach finally calmed.

-0-0-0-

He took his sweet time unbuttoning her dress.

And she took no time at all to remove his shirt and trousers.

Their lips met over and over and over again, and she wondered whether it would ultimately go any further than this: her in her best bra and knickers, him in his shorts, touching and kissing and whispering words of affection into each other's ears.

And then they were both fully undressed, and he was inside her, and they were moving together, breathing as one, clinging desperately to each other, sweat-drenched and tingling and heady.

"Severus," she moaned. "Yes... yes..."

"Hermione..." His mouth met hers, his tongue met hers. Yes. Yes.

-0-0-0-

She'd never had a fling before.

Was it supposed to feel this good?

-0-0-0-

He'd had a half dozen flings before.

Never had it felt this good.

-0-0-0-

Meanwhile, in the toddler bed in the tent in the sitting room, a tiny child was thrashing about her sleep, whimpering, tears burning the corners of her eyes.

She was dreaming again about the snake man with the red eyes.

She'd displeased him somehow. She'd let something slip through her fingers.

So he was angry.

Very angry.

He raised his wand.

He said that wicked word:

 _"Crucio."_

She fell to the floor.

And it hurt.

It hurt.


	18. No Surprises

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:**

 **No Surprises**

 **"I'll take a quiet life...**

 **With no alarms and no surprises..."**

 **-RADIOHEAD**

It didn't take long after falling into bed that they fell into a routine.

She would visit sometime between lunch and dinner. They'd share at least one meal together with Eileen, and then, before the child's bath and bed, Hermione would leave, only to return hours later once the child was certain to be asleep. Then they'd typically chat a little and drink a little before ending up in various stages of undress, enjoying each other physically, and pretending nothing was happening between them. He did make an effort to teach her while providing her the pleasure he'd promised, encouraging her to try new positions and techniques, to talk to him about what she liked and wanted, and to release her remaining inhibitions.

He wouldn't admit it, but she was teaching him, too. Teaching him to open himself emotionally, as their best and most intimate conversations tended to follow their most intimate encounters... and, eventually, to precede them. He came to rely on her presence during the days, and, on occasion, secretly pretended they were family, especially when out and about with Eileen.

Which was dangerous.

This routine bled into a new routine, one with less pretense, in which she stopped leaving after dinner and returning once Eileen was asleep, and started helping with bath and bedtime and book reading, only to retire with him to his bedroom once the girl was out. They remained careful to avoid being caught together in bed, though. Most mornings she left by sunrise before Eileen was up for the day, but over the last week she'd taken to simply moving to the kitchen and making coffee or, when completely exhausted, passing out on the couch for a few hours after leaving his arms.

They were only a fortnight away from Christmas. The temperature had dropped considerably, they'd neither revisited the "mystery" of the ancient runes nor found another reason for her to continue staying in the city for research, and both knew she was expected to move on by the first of the year, which seemed to be approaching more rapidly than the calendar should allow.

It wasn't only the sex that they were enjoying together. Severus couldn't deny that she was a 'better than adequate' conversationalist (a high compliment from him) and Hermione found him equally fascinating. They talked of both magical and Muggle things, of the news and the world, of the war of history, and, after a particularly difficult day or night with Eileen, they talked about the child, her condition, his fears regarding her future, and how they might work together to help her heal, though truly both were at a loss as far as that was concerned.

All was going well, all things considered.

Too well.

Until...

It was exactly two weeks to Christmas Eve. Hermione had stayed the night, as usual. They'd been up late, past eleven, playing a card game she'd recently taught him called Hand and Foot, taught to her by her father, who learned it from an exchange student who'd spent a semester living with his family when he was a teenager. Severus, being a naturally competitive person, would not concede victory, thus he with every loss he'd request, "Three of five," or "Five of seven" until he thought he could manage a win, carrying them well into the night.

They finally abandoned the cards on the kitchen table with their empty wine glasses, checked on Eileen, who was sleeping peacefully, and retired to his bedroom.

"I am not looking forward to your imminent departure, Miss Granger," he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and nuzzling his nose into the crux of her neck. "Surely you could write to your superiors explaining your need to remain in Rome for another month or two?"

"I've already extended my time here with no valid reason... no reason my superiors would consider valid, that is." She bent her head to grant him better access to her collarbone as her hands settled over his across her abdomen. "Should I ask for an extension on the grounds that I've come to rely on nightly sexual encounters that bring me to such a point of exhaustion because I'm sleeping better than I have since before the war?"

"Sounds valid to me." He kissed her shoulder, neck, jaw line, and cheek, pressing forward with his groin, hoping she could feel how hard he was for her already. These nightly encounters were having a profound positive effect on him, too. He felt less stressed, less surly, and, like her, better rested each morning than he had been in years. "Surely they wanted you well-rested."

Though she knew they'd have to face reality sooner rather than later, she was not content to do so tonight, thus she swiveled around, kissed him soundly, and began undoing each of the many buttons on his shirt, eager to have him naked.

He was not opposed to forgoing conversation in favor of a good fuck, thus he allowed himself to be distracted by her fingers and tongue, as she made quick work of divesting him of his shirt and trousers. He did the same to her jumper and jeans and the two collapsed onto the high bed in only their undergarments.

"What do you want tonight?" he asked, his voice low, as his fingertips brushed lightly over the soft skin spilling from the cup of her bra.

"I want to be on top," she whispered, arching her back, thrusting her chest up in a nonverbal plea for him to touch here there more. "I want to ride you. I want... I want..."

Her words died on her lips as his mouth went to her breast, his tongue delving under the fabric of her bra, flicking over the hardened bud in the center of her nipple. They'd been doing this long enough – and frequently enough – that he'd learned what she liked best and vice-versa.

Soon enough, they were both naked and slick with sweat, gasping and groaning, whispering and whimpering. She was indeed on top, grinding her hips with one hand on the center of his chest in front of her and the other on his thigh behind her, using his proud erection as one might a favorite sex toy. The sighs and sounds she emitted were their own turn on, as was her ability to maintain eye contact.

"I need this," she said. "I need you. I need... I need... Oh, Severus!" She arched her back, increasing her speed, and clenched her teeth to keep from getting too loud.

"Yes, Hermione, yes..." he moaned under her, trying to control his lower body, which wanted to buck and thrust and plow mercilessly into her. "You cannot leave me in January."

"I... I know..." She slowed and he could see in her expression that she wanted to talk, she wanted to have this discussion now - but now was not the time.

"Please, Hermione..." he pleaded, urging her on with his hands on her thighs. "Don't stop..."

"I won't stop." She switched from grinding to bouncing, enjoying watching him watch her. She knew he likes the way her breasts bounced along with her, enjoyed seeing her slick sex encompassing his hardness, enjoyed watching as her eyelashes fluttered and her pupils rolled back the closer she got to completion.

She didn't always finish before him. Sometimes she wasn't able to 'finish' at all, though he'd always put in his best effort, which she appreciated. Tonight, however, thanks in part to the glean in his eye and in part to the way his thumb was working over her clit, she reached her peak rather quickly. Her body tensed as her quim thrummed and pulsated around his engorged cock, which very nearly made him spill his seed right then. She collapsed forward, spent and sated, and relaxed into something closely resembling melted butter as his arms wrapped around her back. He remained inside her, his own climax not far off.

"Let's go to Egypt."

"Hmm?" she tried to lift her head from his shoulder but found it too heavy for her neck to support. He flipped them so she was on her back, bent one of her knees up toward her chest, and resumed thrusting.

"Egypt," he repeated. "You said you wanted to. Let's go. For Christmas."

"You want to go to Egypt for Christmas?"

"It could be our... farewell excursion." He hated to say it, but throughout this brief affair, both had been abundantly clear that the arrangement was temporary; They'd even begun preparing Eileen, explaining that Hermione would soon have to return home but would be sure to write. Eileen seemed excited about the possibility of receiving her own mail from owls, like Baba, and Hermione even promised some correspondence would contain candy as well. Severus hoped as long as the child had something to look forward to in the young witch's departure, she wouldn't be traumatized once they'd both moved on. The pseudo-couple had also agreed that he wouldn't tell Hermione which country he intended to take his daughter to after the first of the year. Though they could continue to send letters – for a little while, at least – it was better that she not know where he'd gone, and eventually the letters would... stop.

He tried to put this out of his mind as he kissed her knee and brushed her sticky hair away from her eyes and continued to jerk his hips; his movements were becoming erratic now, as was his breathing. He was losing control.

"Come here," she demanded, reaching up to pull him down to her for a kiss. He released her leg, allowing her to wrap both around his waist, keeping him close. He typically hated this position with the witches he was casually shagging; he saved it for girlfriends, and even then, only after they'd been dating for some time and only because it was requested of him. It was too intimate, this position. He much preferred to mount a witch from behind or throw her legs over his shoulders, thus keeping their upper bodies separated. And he did not typically enjoy snogging during sex, preferring it as a prelude, but with her... with her, he didn't want to stop.

Thus his tongue laved over hers, his hands caressed her thighs, and his heart fluttered in a most worrisome way when she pulled slightly away to whisper his name into his ear, followed by the dangerous words, "Don't let me go."

This was enough to do him in. He exploded inside her with such force he was glad she was no longer on top; she might have been propelled up to the ceiling. Now it was his turn to collapse. His chest crushed down on hers, his face rested on the pillow under her head, and he remained there until he slipped out naturally. He then somehow managed to roll off of her, but their bodies were not disconnected for long; she promptly cuddled up against him, resting her head on the center of his chest and draping her thigh across his lap.

 _Fuck._

How had he let this happen?

From a kiss in the kitchen to "don't let me go."

This could very well end up being one of his greatest mistakes, ranking right up there with getting Lily killed and getting Bellatrix pregnant.

"Wake me at sunrise," she whispered. Her breath danced across his chest and though he knew he shouldn't, he wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her close. He very nearly suggested she forgo pretense and simply stay in his bed until morning, but she added, "I need to shower and change and write a few letters, then I'll return for lunch. I've booked us a car for the afternoon. We're going to Vatican City. I've been researching witchcraft and the Catholic church and the ways the rise of Christianity led to our kind going underground all across Italy. I need to have something to show my superiors and I thought Eileen might enjoy the art and statues."

Severus was quite certain she wouldn't enjoy the art or statues for more than a matter of minutes and would spend the rest of the afternoon whining, pouting, and insisting upon being carried, but he did not say so. He simply closed his eyes and stroked Hermione's hair and reminded himself for the two-millionth time that she was too young for him, too good for him, and too smart to let him ruin her life.

"Did you hate dinner tonight? I thought it was interesting, and Eileen smiled a lot. I think she enjoyed the movie, too. I've never seen her sit quietly for so long without flapping or rocking." She played with the thin line of hair dissecting his pectorals as she spoke, following it down to the soft hair above his cock. He caught her wrist and brought her hand back up. He was not seeking a second go tonight. He was getting too old for such things, and had learned from experience that while she might be able to excite him two or three time in one night, it generally meant he was fighting sheer exhaustion the next morning.

"It was her first cinema experience... and her first time eating that American Muggle cuisine. No wonder they have weight issues across the pond. If I ate like that every night, I'd weigh as much as a small bull elephant. Did you see the size of my mushroom cheddar burger? It could have fed an entire family of four."

"And yet you managed to eat it all on your own. Fancy that!" Hermione giggled. "I knew it was a tourist trap, but I went to one in Paris with my parents once when I was little and it was such fun! I'd love to see the real Hollywood someday."

They'd had dinner at Planet Hollywood, a tacky but not altogether unpleasant chain restaurant that seemed decidedly out of place in old world Rome. This was followed by seeing an animate film called Brother Bear at the local movie theatre. The food had been better than expected, despite his teasing. He'd had the giant mushroom cheddar burger special with chips while Hermione opted for sesame ginger salmon and Eileen had opted for macaroni and cheese, which she seemed to like a little too much – he insisted they share a small fresh fruit platter on the side. He couldn't deny that she'd been captivated but confused by the décor, which included a car that looked as though it had been driven through the ceiling and several large cutouts of famous film stars, so when Hermione suggested they see a movie after he hadn't objected.

"She didn't understand a word of that movie, you know." He ran his fingertips lightly up and down her spine from the back of her neck to the top of her bum. "I only understood about half of it."

"You did better than I did, then. But it was cute and had a happy ending and that's what matters in a children's movie."

"We could have gone to a more artistic theatre to see something of substance."

"Or we could go back to see Peter Pan or The Cat in the Hat. Or Love, Actually. There's an actor in that I like, though his voice will be dubbed, which would be a disappointment as it's his best feature."

"I've read Peter Pan aloud to her. That might not be awful."

"It comes out Christmas day, though, and unfortunately we won't be in Italy then..." She sucked her bottom lip for a second before gazing up at him. "If you were serious about going to Egypt?"

"I was. I am."

"When? When will we leave? When would we get back?"

He wanted to answer that they'd leave in the morning and not come back, but he knew such a response would be stupid and irresponsible.

"I'll make the arrangements tomorrow with the intention of arriving in Egypt on the 23rd and returning on the 27th. This was we can enjoy Christmas Eve, Christmas, and Boxing Day without having to travel. Will that suffice?"

"I'd love it. I already wrote my parents and friends that I was staying in Rome for Christmas so they won't be expecting me. How shall we figure the cost? How much do you reckon I should set aside?"

"Not a sickle." He brought her hand up from his chest to his lips to kiss her palm. Damn it. He was treating her like a girlfriend. Girlfriends get invited on holiday abroad. Casual fucks do not. Part of him wanted to tell her he'd made a mistake, but a greater part of him again assured himself this would be their 'one last hurrah,' so to speak, a memory to replay in their minds after they parted ways just days later.

"I can't keep my eyes open." She snuggled closer, if that were possible, and sighed contentedly. "Wake me at sunrise?"

"I've already set the alarm," he said, gesturing toward the digital clock on the bedside table beside his wand. "Sleep well, Hermione."

"Good night, Severus."

-0-0-0-

She hated having to wake at the literal crack of dawn to return home, but understood why he insisted upon it. It had been a good night. Not only had she thoroughly enjoyed their dinner date and the trip to the cinema, Eileen had not fought against her bath, went to sleep easily, and did not wake screaming hours later. Hermione, therefore, thought their first official date had been a success.

Not that she told him she was considering their first official date.

She reckoned he had no idea she viewed it as any different than any other night they'd spent together with Eileen, having dinner and finding ways to pass the time until the child was asleep, but she thought nothing seemed more 'date like' than dinner and a movie. At least, that's what other movies she'd seen in the past had led her to believe.

She hadn't told him as much, but she was dreading leaving Rome. Leaving him. Leaving Eileen. Sure, they promised to write, but how long would that last? And what good would it do, aside from keeping the child from feeling abruptly abandoned? That afternoon he'd kissed her in the kitchen and sworn whatever happened between them would be strictly physical, completely meaningless, and unquestionably temporary, she'd known in the back of her mind she was incapable of adhering to such an arrangement.

But she couldn't see herself living as he did, fleeing from country to country whenever the real world got too close, hiding the fact that he survived the war and toting around a child who may or may not actually be his, always looking over their shoulders, always ready to run. She needed help, advice, from someone she could trust, someone they both could trust... but who?

Minerva, she decided.

She'd pen a letter to Minerva. He trusted Minerva, which meant she could too.

But what to write? What to ask? What to... confess?

She hated walking home at this time. In order to keep the wards up around her temporary home, she had to apparate to an apparition point about a ten minute walk from the flat. The sun was still pink and dim, not having fully risen yet, and the streets were almost abandoned. She walked briskly, holding tightly to the bag slung over her shoulder. A man had tried to rob her on this route not two weeks ago; she'd quickly glanced around and, seeing no witnesses, hexed him away before wiping his memory. She knew such a response could earn her an infraction from the Ministry, even jeopardize her return to her job, but she hadn't much time to contemplate her next move while staring at the blade of his knife.

She'd gone home, warded the flat around her, and collapsed to the floor in a sobbing mess. Not because he'd threatened to slit her throat if she refused to part with her purse, but because the knife, the blade... it brought back memories. Memories of a similar knife, a similar blade... a sharp touch, sinking into her skin, etching letters into her arm, a wound inflicted by a sick, twisted sadist with threats of her own.

She hated this.

She hated that she wasn't okay.

Harry seemed alright. Ron seemed alright. Luna and Ginny and Neville seemed alright. They were happy, fulfilled, living their best lives. They hadn't needed extensive therapy after the war. They weren't still plagued by nightmares.

Was she really so much weaker than her friends that she couldn't get past what had happened five years and seven months ago?

It wasn't only boredom that chased her away from the UK a few months ago. It was fear. And stagnation. And depression. And emptiness. It was that she hadn't managed to pick herself up and move on with the same apparent ease as those around her. The only ones who seemed to be struggling five years out as much as she was were Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and George, Andromeda Tonks, and, she suspected, Severus Snape.

But they all had reasons. Valid, legitimate reasons. They had personal losses, significant ones. The Weasleys lost Fred, which hit his parents and twin hardest, as one might expect. Andromeda had lost her husband, daughter, and son-in-law, and was now raising a small child alone. And Severus – well, he wouldn't talk about the war at all unless he had at least three glasses of whisky or wine in him first, which Hermione reckoned spoke for itself.

But she hadn't lost anyone closer to her than Fred or Lupin or Tonks . Her parents' memories had been restored, her two best mates had survived, and she hadn't even been significantly wounded in that Final Battle. She had cried at the memorial service for Hogwarts professors Burbage, Sinistra, and Babbling, and she wasn't sure she'd ever properly mourned the passing of Professor Dumbledore, and it haunted her to recall how the Creevey brothers had looked lain out side by side in the Great Hall when it was all over, and she felt guilty for being repulsed by the scars that completely changed the visage of Lavender Brown, but after five years she had no good reason to keep from moving on, moving forward, and living her best life as Harry and Ron were.

She was only about five minutes from home. She picked up the pace. It was bloody cold! She should have performed a warming charm before leaving his flat but her mind hadn't been working properly given the early hour and the little time they'd spent sleeping.

She chose to push her worries from her mind and focus instead on reliving the night before. They'd sat at the table, been handed their menus, and been left alone to peruse them. She'd laughed right out loud at the look on his face, one of mixed bemusement and horror as he took in the décor.

"What do you think?" she asked, smiling. Eileen bounced on her knees, also taking in their surroundings, albeit wearing an entirely different expression from her father.

"It's positively garish," he said after a few seconds. "This is a popular place for Muggles?"

"There's not a free table anywhere, is there?"

"And it's American?"

"All very American, hence the name."

He nodded discerningly. "So it's offensive on two fronts: Muggle, and American."

She couldn't hold back her snicker. "Suppress that snark, sir. It is not welcome here tonight! Do you like it, Eileen? Do you like Planet Hollywood?"

"Love!" announced Eileen boisterously. "Love a Pan-it Hah-hah-wood!"

 _"Plan-et Holly-wood,"_ Hermione corrected carefully. She smirked at Severus. "Eileen loves it."

"Eileen is six years old. She has a pet bird made of paper, loves eating Bertie Botts Beans that she finds in the couch cushions, and requests I read her books about talking kittens who can't manage to find their own mittens. Her taste is therefore... questionable."

"Don't listen to him, you have fine taste!" Hermione patted Eileen's hand sympathetically, though the girl did not seem at all affronted. She was still glancing around the decorated ceiling, wide eyed, with her free hand tapping at her chin. She hummed quietly, hardly audible over the pop music pumped out through the speakers, and she was smiling.

When the server returned, Severus peppered her with questions before she could take their drink orders. Thankfully for Hermione, she was a French girl who spoke excellent English, so she wasn't left out of the conversation.

"Do you get many Americans in here?"

"Oui, some."

"What are they like?"

"Loud." The waitress shrugged pleasantly. "But zhey tip better zhan Italians!"

"And they enjoy this... food? 'Chicken fingers' and 'Buffalo wings'? Since when have chickens got fingers? And what are buffalo wings?"

"Zhe chicken fingers come from... from zhe wing, peut-etre? I'm afraid I do not know."

"Leave her alone!" scolded Hermione. "We're ready to order now."

Once she'd left the table with their food choices scribbled on her little pad, Hermione set her hand on Severus' knee under the table and grinned.

"For a half-blood, you _really_ don't know much about Muggle culture or cuisine, do you?"

"Not American Muggle culture and cuisine, no. But that aside, it was a valid question. As far as I am aware, chicken do not have fingers and buffalo do not have wings."

"Chicken fingers are boneless wings, and buffalo wings are chicken too."

"Buffalo wings are chicken? Why are they called buffalo? And why aren't they called buffalo fingers if fingers are wings?"

"COKE!"

Eileen's shout startled Severus and Hermione. She was reaching toward a glass the waitress had put down at the next table, practically standing in her seat.

"No, Eileen." Severus guided her back down. "You are having water. Water is better for you than Coke."

To his surprise, she did not argue or even pout. This was likely because her water arrived then in a plastic cup with a neon pink swirly straw that instantly captivated her as the room had upon entry. Hermione and Severus raised their glasses to each other in a toast of sorts (he had a beer, thinking it might go well with the burger, while she was trying an iced tea, not at all her usual beverage of choice) before taking their first sips.

"It's an experience, at any rate," he said, willing to set aside his snark for the time being.

She tried a bite of his burger and ate several of his fries, while he sampled her fish right off her fork, which made her stomach twist in a not unpleasant way. To the casual observer, they likely seemed like any other vacationing family, despite their age difference and Eileen's visible quirks. And she liked it.

They were sharing a dessert of decadent chocolate cake smothered in hot fudge when he asked whether there was any place she'd love to travel but thus far hadn't seen, and she immediately answered, "Egypt." They spent the next ten minutes talking about Egyptian wizards, code breakers, the Sphinx and mummies, and how incredible it must be to see the pyramids in person. She couldn't believe they were less than a fortnight away from seeing it together. She pictured the two of them standing on either side of Eileen, holding her small hands, staring up at the Great Pyramids, one of the Wonders of the World.

Like a family.

She was so lost in thought she walked smack into the figure standing on her front step. She leapt back, withdrawing her wand, and very nearly sent a hex his way before his face came into focus.

His freckled face.

"Ron?" she gasped, slipping her wand back into her shoulder bag. "What are you doing here?"

"Surprise, Hermione!" He grinned and ran one hand through his purposely untidy ginger hair. "I've got two weeks off for Christmas, so I came to surprise you! You won't have to spent the holiday alone. I'll be here for the next fourteen days! From now through Boxing Day! Are you surprised?"

"Oh... yes." She blinked several times, as if doing so might make him disappear again. "Yes, I'm... I'm _beyond_ surprised."

"Great!" He moved forward as if to kiss her but, perhaps sensing her apprehension, clapped her on the shoulder instead. "Can we go in now? Got anything to eat? I'm starved."

She unlocked her door with her wand first, then the Muggle key, leading him into her flat. She hadn't spent much time there over the last month or so since she'd started... whatever she and Severus had started... and she honestly wasn't sure she had any food, but she directed him toward the kitchen, explaining that she had to use the loo quickly and then would give him a tour.

"Where were you? It's so early. When you didn't answer the door I thought you were sound asleep."

"I... jog... in the mornings. Early in the mornings. I... jog. I just love to... jog." She set down her bag glad her 'on break boyfriend' wasn't the observant, suspicious type of man Severus was; her lover would never believe she'd been out jogging in low-heeled boots and a jumper with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable!"

She shut and locked the bathroom door and sat on the closed toilet seat, leaning her elbows on her knees and breathing slowly, deliberately, in and out, trying to keep calm. He was going to be visiting for the next fourteen days? But... he couldn't! That would be through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and Boxing Day, her entire trip to Egypt would have to be cancelled. _Trips!_ She suddenly remembered she and Severus and Eileen had a trip to Vatican City planned for this very afternoon. _Severus and Eileen!_ She couldn't let Ron know that they were in Rome, he couldn't know what Severus was alive, he couldn't learn of Eileen's existence... He couldn't know she'd been sleeping with the former professor while she and Ron were on their yearlong break!

And how could she tell Severus, how could she get a message to him without Ron seeing or hearing it? She couldn't very well send it by Patronus, and sending a message by owl post was impossible without apparating to Pompeii to post it, and if she tried to leave the flat to warn him in person, surely Ron would want to follow.

"Oh, Ronald," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. His presence in Rome could very well ruin _everything_.

-0-0-0-

Eileen woke up early and climbed into bed with her father, wanting him to be awake too. He was dressed. He always dressed when Hermione left, and kept a pair of pajama pants hanging on the bed post in case Eileen tried to come into the room when he and his lover were still in bed. He had the entire flat warded to warn him if she left her tent so he'd have a few moments to prepare before she found herself in his room, and thus far that had been enough to keep from catching him naked in bed with the witch.

"Baba," she said, tapping the center of his chest where, only an hour before, Hermione's hand had rested over his breastbone. "Baba, mac'roni cheese a breakfast?"

"No, you may not have macaroni and cheese for breakfast." He opened one eye to glance at the clock. "It's too early for breakfast anyway. Back to bed. Go on."

"Night-night," she said, but she crawled under the covers beside him rather than returning to the toddler bed in her tent. "Hahminy back today?"

"Yes, Hermione is coming back today." He wrapped his arms around her as he had his girlfr... his compan... his sleeping partner the night before. She asked that question every morning she woke to find Hermione wasn't there. He did not look forward to the day he'd have to start telling the girl, "No, Hermione is not coming back today. Hermione is not coming back ever again."

He'd made a terrible mistake by introducing the young witch into his daughter's life... into his own life. And he had no idea how to rectify it.

He needed advice. Advice from the only person he could trust.

"Let's write a letter to Professor McGonagall after breakfast." He caught Eileen's flicking, flapping hand in the hair and squeezed it, which seemed to calm her need to wriggle. "You can sign your name. Show her how Hermione's been helping you sign your name."

"E-I-L-E-E-N." Eileen had been spelling her name for almost a year, but Hermione had been teaching her to write it properly, with an uppercase E to start, the rest lowercase, all along the same line without huge spaces between each letter.

"Do you like Hermione, Eileen?" He was certain he knew the answer, but hadn't asked the question straight out.

"Like Hahminy," she confirmed. She pulled her hand away from his and stuffed her thumb in her mouth, which he knew wasn't a better habit than the flapping and flicking, but he chose to let it go for now.

"I like her too," he confessed. Eileen fell back to sleep shortly thereafter, still sucking her thumb, but Severus lay awake until the alarm went off again at half-past nine.

-0-0-0-

"Harry and Ginny were looking forward to seeing you at Christmas. I told them they could come here, meet us here when they get off work, but Ginny said Mum would kill her if they miss Christmas at home."

"Won't she miss you, too?" asked Hermione, setting a plate of eggs down in front of him. There had been four eggs in the fridge. She fried them up but had nothing to serve with them, disappointing Ron, who'd been hoping for sausages. "It's sweet of you to have come, but I don't want to upset your mother..."

"No, no she understands about us."

"Does she?" Hermione almost asked if Mrs. Weasley could enlighten her about them, since she didn't understand at all.

"Yeah," he replied with a mouth full of eggs. "Got any toast?"

"Err..." There was a loaf in the breadbox, but it had gone green. She was afraid if he knew she'd been keeping moldy food he'd wonder why she hadn't been home to notice that it had turned. "Sorry, I've just run out. I eat at cafes, mostly. No sense in cooking when it's just me."

"You can show me all around Rome. You've been here so long now, you must know all its secrets!"

"Ohh... no." She poked her fork at her own eggs but found she had absolutely no appetite. "Only one or two secrets, and not any you'd be interested in learning about, I'm sure."

"I'd bet that's not true!" He was really shoveling them down. Maybe he'd want to eat hers after he finished his own.

"What makes you think I've discovered any... secrets?"

"Bloody hell, Hermione, I'm not an idiot! I notice things!"

She tried not to roll her eyes at this. She was still wearing high-heeled boots and he still hadn't thought to question her jogging explanation.

"You've barely even written us since you got here! _Something_ must be keeping you busy!" His fork stabbed at the egg on her plate. "And I want to know what it is."

* * *

 **A/N:**

I apologize profusely for the slow update of this fic. I struggled like mad trying to get this chapter out, as I'd deviated so far from my original plot line I couldn't get back on track, then I wrote four completely different Chapter 18s (this is the fourth) because I couldn't decide how to save it. Finally I realized that I was going to have to toss out my notes and re-outline, then I saved some things I liked that were already planned (like Ron's arrival) and threw out things that no longer made sense (like Eileen wandering off and getting picked up by Italian Aurors... long story!). I hope this chapter didn't disappoint and that you'll like where I end up going with this! My goal is to update once per week until my Andromeda fic is complete (by the end of January) then return to twice weekly. Thank you for your support and patience!

- **AL**

 **PS:** Planet Hollywood in Rome closed in 2003, the year this story takes place, and the food they ate really comes from the menu. Brother Bear opened in cinemas in November 2003 but I couldn't find the Italian release date. Love, Actually also really did come out in December 2003 and stars the actor with the voice Hermione likes so much. It's both a great and terrible movie – great because it's got so many good moments, and terrible because (SPOILER ALERT) I have a ridiculously difficult time watching Alan Rickman's character cheat on Emma Thompson's character; her sobbing scene just kills me. I just spend the whole time wanting to hug her and tell her she can do better even though it hurts me to say so because I adore him.


End file.
